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FROM MAX WEBER: Essays m Sociolosy
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From Marianne Weber's Miix Wtbci : em Lebensbild
MAX WEBER
FROM MAX WEBER: Essays in Sociology
TRANSLATED, EDITED, AND WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
H. H. GERTH and C. WRIGHT MILLS
NEW YORK
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
1946
Copyright 1946 by Oxford University Press, New York, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
X rel;
reiace
One hundred and fifty years ago A. F, Tytler set forth three Principles
of Translation: To give a complete transcript of the original ideas; to
imitate the styles of the original author; and to preserve the ease of the
original text. In presenting selections from Max Weber to an EngHsh-
reading public, we hope we have met the first demand, that of faithfulness
to the original meaning. The second and the third demands are often
disputable in translating German into English, and, in the case of Max
Weber, they are quite debatable.
The genius of the German language has allowed for a twofold stylistic
tradition. One tradition corresponds to the drift of English towards brief
and grammatically lucid sentences. Such sentences carry transparent trains
of thought in which first things stand first. Friedrich Nietzsche, Georg
Christoph Lichtenberg, and Franz Kafka are eminent among the repre-
sentatives of this tradition.
The other tradition is foreign to the tendency of modern English. It
is often felt to be formidable and forbidding, as readers of Hegel and
Jean Paul Richter, of Karl Marx and Ferdinand Tonnies may testify.
It would hardly do to classify the two traditions as 'good' and 'bad.'
Authors representing the first believe in addressing themselves to the
ear; they wish to write as if they were speaking. The second group ad-
dress themselves to the eye of the silent reader. Their texts cannot easily
be read aloud to others; everyone has to read for himself. Max Weber
once compared German literary humanism to the education of the Chinese
Mandarin; and Jean Paul Richter, one of the greatest of German writers,
asserted that 'a long period bespeaks of greater deference for the reader
than do twenty short sentences. In the end the reader must make them
over into one by rereading and recapitulation. The writer is no speaker
and the reader is no listener. . .' ^
1 Vorschule der Aesthetik, p. 382, Sammtliche Werke, Vol. 18 (Berlin, 1841).
5jBa039
Vi PREFACE
It is obvious that this school of writing is not what it is because of the
inability of its practitioners to write well. They simply follow an alto-
gether different style. They use parentheses, qualifying clauses, inversions,
and complex rhythmic devices in their polyphonous sentences. Ideas are
synchronized rather than serialized. At their best, they erect a grammatical
artifice in which mental balconies and watch towers, as well as bridges
and recesses, decorate the main structure. Their sentences are gothic
castles. And Max Weber's style is definitely in their tradition.
Unfortunately, in his case this style is further complicated by a tendency
to Platonize thought: he has a predilection for nouns and participles
linked by the economic yet colorless forms of weak verbs, such as 'to be,'
'to have,' or 'to seem.' This Platonizing tendency is one of Weber's tributes
to German philosophy and jurisprudence, to the style of the pulpit and
the bureaucratic office.
We have therefore violated the second of Tytler's rules for translators.
Although we have been eager to retain Weber's images, his objectivity,
and of course his terms, we have not hesitated to break his sentence into
three or four smaller units. Certain alterations in tense, which in English
would seem illogical and arbitrary, have been eliminated; occasionally
the subjunctive has been changed into the indicative, and nouns into
verbs; appositional clauses and parentheses have been raised to the level
of equality and condemned to follow rather than herald the main idea.
As Weber has not observed Friedrich Nietzsche's suggestion that one
should write German with an eye to ease of translation, we have had
to drive many a wedge into the structure of his sentences. In all these
matters, we have tried to proceed with respect and measure.
But we have also broken the third rule: Whatever 'ease' Weber may
have in English is an ease of the English prose into which he is rendered
and not any ease of the original work.
A translator of Weber faces a further difficulty. Weber frequently be-
trays a self-conscious hesitancy in the use of loaded words such as democ-
racy, the people, environment, adjustment, etc., by a profuse utilization of
quotation marks. It would be altogether wrong to translate them by the
addition of an ironical 'so-called.' Moreover, Weber often emphasizes
words and phrases; the German printing convention allows for this more
readily than does the English. Our translation, in the main, conforms to
the English convention: we have omitted what to the English reader
would seem self-conscious reservation and manner of emphasis. The same
holds for the accumulation of qualifying words, with which the English
PREFACE Vll
language dispenses without losing in exactitude, emphasis, and meaning.
Weber pushes German academic tradition to its extremes. His major
theme often seems to be lost in a wealth o£ footnoted digressions, exemp-
tions, and comparative illustrations. We have taken some footnotes into
the text and in a few instances we have relegated technical cross-references
which stand in the original text to footnotes.
We have thus violated Tytler's second and third rules in order to fulfil
the first. Our constant aim has been to make accessible to an English-
reading public an accurate rendering of what Weber said.
* * *
We wish to thank the editorial staff of Oxford University Press for
their encouragement of our efforts. Special thanks are due Mrs. Patricke
Johns Heine who assisted revisions of the first drafts of chapters iv, x, and
XII ; and to Mr. J. Ben Gillingham who performed the same task in connec-
tion with section 6 of chapter xiii. Miss Honey Toda partially edited and
retyped many pages of almost illegible manuscript and we are grateful
for her diligence.
We are grateful for the valuable assistance of Dr. Hedwig Ide Gerth
and Mrs. Freya Mills. The administrative generosity of Professor Carl S.
Joslyn, chairman of the Department of Sociology, the University of Mary-
land, and the support of Professor Thomas C. McCormick, chairman at
the University of Wisconsin, have greatly facilitated the work. Professor
E. A. Ross has been kind enough to read chapter xii and to give us his
suggestions.
One of our translations, 'Class, Status, Party,' has been printed in
Dwight Macdonald's Politics (October 1944) and is included in this vol-
ume by his kind permission. We are grateful to the pubHshers, Houghton
MifHin Company, for permission to reprint a revision of Max Weber's
paper given before the Congress of Arts and Science, St. Louis Exposition
of 1904.
Responsibility for the selections and reliability of the German meanings
rendered is primarily assumed by H. H. Gerth; responsibility for the
formulation and editorial arrangement of the EngHsh text is primarily
assumed by C. Wright Mills. But the book as a whole represents our
mutual work and we are jointly responsible for such deficiencies as it
may contain.
Hans H. Gerth
C. Wright Mills
Taole ol (contents
\
Preface, v
Introduction: THE MAN AND HIS WORK
/ ^ I. A Biographical View, 3
\ II. Political Concerns, 32
>ij {TlILVntellectual Orientations, 45
■"^^ \ ** I, Marx and Weber, 46
^y^ Bureaucracy and Charisma: a Philosophy of History, 51
; ^ 3. Methods of Social Science, 55
j 4. The Sociology of Ideas and Interests, 61
\ 5. Social Structures and Types of Capitalism, 65
\ ,^6. Conditions of Freedom and the Image of Man, 70
Part I: SCIENCE AND POLITICS
IV. Politics as a Vocation, 77
V. Science as a Vocation, 129
Part II: POWER
VI. Structures of Power, 159
1. The Prestige and Power of the 'Great Powers,' 159
2. The Economic Foundations of 'Imperialism,' 162
3. The Nation, 171
VII. Class, Status, Party, 180
1. Economically Determined Power and the Social Order, 180
2. Determination of Class-Situation by Market-Situation, 181
3. Communal Action Flowing from Class Interest, 183
4. Types of 'Class Struggle,' 184
5. Status Honor, 186
6. Guarantees of Status Stratification, 187
- 7. 'Ethnic' Segregation and 'Caste,' 188
8. Status Privileges, 190
9. Economic Conditions and Effects of Status Stratification, 192
10. Parties, 194
ix
X CONTENTS
VIII. Bureaucracy, 196
I. Characteristics of Bureaucracy, 196
•«. 2. The Position o£ the Official, 198
3. The Presuppositions and Causes of Bureaucracy, 204
4. The Quantitative Development of Administrative Tasks, 209
5. Qualitative Changes of Administrative Tasks, 212
- 6. Technical Advantages of Bureaucratic Organization, 214
7. Bureaucracy and Lav/, 216
8. The Concentration of the Means of Administration, 221
— 9. The Leveling of Social Differences, 224
10. The Permanent Character of the Bureaucratic Machine, 228
11. Economic and Social Consequences of Bureaucracy, 230
12. The Power Position of Bureaucracy, 232
13. Stages in the Development of Bureaucracy, 235
V 14. The 'Rationalization' of Education and Training, 240
\^1X. The Sociology of Charismatic Authority, 245
w- I. The General Character of Charisma, 245
U 2. Foundations and Instability of Charismatic Authority, 248
L.^3. Charismatic Kingship, 251
X. The Meaning of Discipline, 253
I. The Origins of Discipline in War, 255
2.. The Discipline of Large-Scale Economic Organizations, 261
3. Discipline and Charisma, 262
Part III: RELIGION
XL The Social Psychology of the World Religions, 267
XII. The Protestant Sects and the Spirit of Capitalism, 302
XIII. Religious Rejections of the World and Their Directions, 323
1. Motives for the Rejection of the World: the Meaning of Their
Rational Construction, 323
2. Typology of Asceticism and of Mysticism, 324
3. Directions of the Abnegation of the World, 327
4. The Economic Sphere, 331
5. The Political Sphere, 333
6. The Esthetic Sphere, 340
7. The Erotic Sphere, 343
8. The Intellectual Sphere, 350
9. The Three Forms of Theodicy, 358
Part IV: SOCIAL STRUCTURES
XIV. Capitalism and Rural Society in Germany, 363
XV. National Character and the Junkers, 386
CONTENTS XI
XVI. India: The Brahman and the Castes, 396
1. Caste and Tribe, 398
2. Caste and Guild, 399
3. Caste and Status Group, 405
4. The Social Rank Order of the Castes in General, 409
5. Castes and Traditionalism, 411
XVII. The Chinese Literati, 416
1. Confucius, 421
2. The Development of the Examination System, 422
3. The Typological Position of Confucian Education, 426
4. The Status-Honor of the Literati, 434
5. The Gentleman Ideal, 436
6. The Prestige of Officialdom, 438
7. Views on Economic Policy, 440
8. Sultanism and the Eunuchs as Political Opponents of the Literati,
442
Notes, 445
Index, 469
Introduction
THE MAN AND HIS WORK
1. A ijiograpnical V lew^
Max Weber was born in Erfurt, Thuringia, on 21 April 1864. His father,
Max Weber, Sr., a trained jurist and municipal counselor, came from a
family of linen merchants and textile manufacturers of western Germany.
In 1869 the Webers moved to Berlin, which was soon to become the
booming capital of Bismarck's Reich. There, Weber, Sr. became a pros-
perous politician, active in the municipal diet of Berlin, the Prussian
diet, and the new Reichstag. He belonged to the right-wing liberals led
by the Hanoverian noble, Bennigsen. The family resided in Charlotten-
burg, then a west-end suburb of Berlin, where academic and political
notables were neighbors. In his father's house young Weber came to
know such men as Dilthey, Mommsen, Julian Schmidt, Sybel, Treitschke,
and Friedrich Kapp.
Max Weber's mother, Helene Fallenstein Weber, was a cultured and
liberal woman of Protestant faith. Various members of her Thuringian
family were teachers and small officials. Her father, however, had been
a well-to-do official who, on the eve of the 1848 revolution, had retired
to a villa in Heidelberg. Gervinus, the eminent liberal historian and a
close friend of her family, had tutored her in the several humanist sub-
jects. Until she died, in 1919, Max Weber corresponded with her in long,
intimate, and often learned letters. In Berlin Helene Weber became an
overburdened Hausfraii, faithfully caring for the busy politician, the six
children, and a constant circle of friends. Two of her children had died
in infancy. The misery of the industrial classes of Berlin impressed her
deeply. Her husband neither understood nor shared her religious and
humanitarian concerns. He probably did not share her emotional hfe and
certainly the two differed in their feelings about many public questions.
During Max's youth and early manhood his parents' relations were in-
creasingly estranged.
The intellectual companions of the household and the extensive travels
of the family made the precocious young Weber dissatisfied with the
3
4 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
routine instruction of the schools. He was a weakly child, who suflfered
meningitis at the age of 4; he preferred books to sports and in early
adolescence he read widely and developed intellectual interests of his
own. At the age of 13 he wrote historical essays, one of which he called,
'Concerning the Course of German History, with Special Regard to the
Positions of Kaiser and Pope.' Another was 'Dedicated to My Own In-
significant Ego as well as to Parents and Siblings.' At fifteen he was
reading as a student reads, taking extensive notes. He seemed to have
been preoccupied from an early age with the balanced and qualified state-
ment. Criticizing the rather low tastes of his classmates, who, instead
of Scott's historical novels, read contemporary trash, he was careful to
add: 'Perhaps it sounds presumptuous if I maintain this position, since
I am one of the youngest fellows in my class; however, this circum-
stance strikes one's eyes so sharply that I need not fear that I am not
speaking the truth if I state it in this manner. Of course, there are always
exceptions.' He appeared to be lacking also in any profound respect for
his teachers. Since he was quite ready to share his knowledge with his
schoolmates during examinations, they found him likeable and some-
thing of a 'phenomenon.'
Young Weber, 'a politician's son in the age of Bismarck's Rcalpolitif{,'
dismissed the universal literary appraisal of Cicero as bunk. In his eyes,
Cicero, especially in his first Catilinarian speech, was a dilettante of
phrases, a poor politician, and an irresponsible speaker. Putting himself
in Cicero's shoes, he asked himself what good could these long-winded
speeches accomplish? He felt Cicero ought to have 'bumped off' {ab-
murf(sen) Catiline and squelched the threatening conspiracy by force.
After detailed arguments, he ended a letter to a cousin: 'In short, I find
the speech very weak and without purpose, the whole policy vacillating
with regard to its ends. I find Cicero without appropriate resolve and
energy, without skill, and without the ability to bide his time.' The older
correspondent, a student in Berlin University, responded by intimating
that young Weber was parroting books he had read. In self-defense
Weber repHed sharply but with dignity:
What you have written sounds as if you believe I had copied from some
book, or at least that I had rendered the substance of something I had read.
After all, that is, in a nutshell, the meaning of your long lecture. You seek
to bring out this point in a form as little concrete as possible because you
entertain the opinion that I would mind an opinion which, so far as I my-
self know, is not true. Though I have summoned all knowledge of myself,
A BIOGRAPHICAL VIEW 5
I have not been able to admit that I have let myself be swayed too much by
any one book or by any phrase from the mouth of my teachers. . . To be
sure . . . we younger ones profit in general from treasures that you seniors,
and I consider you as one of them, have garnered. . . I admit that probably
everything indirectly stems from books, for what are books for except to en-
lighten and instruct man about things that are unclear to him? It is possible
that I am very sensitive to books, their comments and deductions. This you
can judge better than I, for in certain respects it is easier to know someone
else than oneself. Yet, the content of my — perhaps completely untrue — state-
ment does not come directly from any book. For the rest, I do not mind your
criticism, as quite similar things are to be found in Mommsen, as I have
only now discovered.^
Young Weber's mother read her son's letters without his knowledge.
She was greatly concerned that she and her son were becoming intel-
lectually estranged. It is not strange that a sincere and intelligent adoles-
cent, aware of the difficulties between his parents and observing the
characteristic ruses of a Victorian patriarchal family, learned that words
and actions should not be taken at their face value. He came to feel that
if one wanted to get at the truth, direct and first-hand knowledge was
necessary. Thus when he was sent to 'confirmation' lessons, he learned
enough Hebrew to get at the original text of the Old Testament.
Frau Weber worried about her son's religious indifference. She wrote:
The closer Max's confirmation approaches, the less can I see that he feels
any of the deeper stimulating influence in this period of his development
which would make him think about what he is asked to enunciate before
the altar as his own conviction. The other day, when we were sitting alone,
I tried to get out of him what he thinks and feels about the main questions
of Christian consciousness. He seemed quite astonished that I should presup-
pose that the self-clarification of such questions as the belief in immortality
and the Benevolence guiding our fate should result from confirmation lessons
for every thinking man. I felt these things with great warmth in my innermost
being — independent of any dogmatic form, they had become the most vital
conviction . . . [yet] it was impossible for me to express it to my own child
in such a way that it would make any impression on him.^
With this profound and personal piety, Helene Weber suflfered under
the worldliness of her external family life. Nevertheless, she lovingly
resigned herself to the somewhat complacent, self-righteous, and patri-
archial atmosphere created by her husband. As an adolescent, Weber
had less and less of a common ground with his mother in serious mat-
6 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
ters. It was not that he was drawn to his father: the worldly atmosphere
of modern intellectual life drew Weber away from the philistinism of his
father as well as from the piety of his mother.
Although respectful, he rebelled against the authority of his elders.
Yet, rather than take part in the 'frivolous' pursuits of his classmates,
the boredom of school routine, and the intellectual insignificance of his
teachers, he withdrew into his own world. Such a boy would not sub-
mit to the impositions of his father. The thoughtless manner in which
his father used his wife did not escape the discerning eye of the seven-
teen-year-old boy. At one point, on a journey to Italy with his father,
he was admonished for not living up to the appropriate degree of stereo-
typed tourist enthusiasm. Max simply declared his intention of returning
home, at once and alone.
The confirmation motto that Weber received was: 'The Lord is the
spirit, but where the Lord's spirit is, there also is freedom.' Max Weber's
widow in her biography comments: 'Hardly any other Biblical motto
could better express the law governing this child's life.'
Weber's pre-university schooling came to an end in the spring of 1882.
Possessed of exceptional talent, he had had no need to 'strain.' His teach-
ers, however, attested to his lack of routine industry and doubted his
'moral maturity.' Like many nineteenth-century thinkers, he made a
rather unfavorable impression upon his teachers. The seventeen-year-old>
stringy young man with sloping shoulders still appeared wanting in
appropriate respect for authority.
He went to Heidelberg and, following in the steps of his father, en-
rolled as a student of law. He also studied a variety of cultural subjects,
including history, economics, and philosophy, which at Heidelberg were
taught by eminent scholars. He accepted provisional membership in his
father's dueling fraternity, the father's influence thus bringing him into
such circles. From the mother's side, through an older cousin who was
studying theology, a son of the Strassburg historian Baumgarten, he par-
ticipated in the theological and philosophical controversies of the day.
He began his daily routine at Heidelberg by rising early to attend a
lecture in logic. Then he 'fiddled around' in the dueling hall for an
hour. He sat through his lectures 'in a studious way,' went to lunch at
12:30, 'for one mark'; occasionally he had a quarter of a litre of wine or
A BIOGRAPHICAL VIEW 7
beer with his meal. Frequently, for two hours in the early afternoon he
played a 'solid game of cards.' Then he retreated to his rooms, went
over his lecture notes, and read such books as Strauss' The Old and the
New Belief. 'Sometimes in the afternoon I go with friends to the moun-
tains and walk, and in the evening we meet again at the restaurant and
have a quite good supper for 80 pfennig. I read Lotze's Microcosm, and
we get into heated argument about it.' ^ Occasionally, invitations to the
homes of professors gave him an opportunity to imitate the characteristic
peculiarities of people known to the group.
During subsequent semesters, Weber joined heartily in the social life
of the dueling fraternity, and he learned to hold his own in drinking
bouts as well as duels. Soon his face carried the conventional dueling
scar. He fell into debt and remained so during his Heidelberg years.
The student and patriotic songs he learned during this period lingered
in his memory throughout the course of his life. The stringy youth grew
into the robust man, broad-shouldered and rather stout. When he visited
his mother in Berlin, now a man with the external characteristics of
Imperial Germany, his mother was shocked at his appearance and re-
ceived him with a slap in the face.
Looking back upon his Heidelberg years, Weber wrote: 'The usual
training for haughty aggression in the dueling fraternity and as an
officer has undoubtedly had a strong influence upon me. It removed
the shyness and insecurity of my adolescence.'^
After three semesters at Heidelberg, at the age of 19 Weber moved
to Strassburg in order to serve his year in the army. Apart from dueling,
he had never done any physical exercise, and the military service with
its drill was difficult for him. In addition to the physical strain, he suf-
fered greatly under the stupidity of barrack drill and the chicanery of
subaltern officers. He did not like to give up his intellectual pursuits:
When I come home I usually go to bed around nine o'clock. However, I
cannot fall asleep, as my eyes are not tired and the intellectual side of man
is not being utilized. The feeling, which begins in the morning and increases
toward the end of the day, of sinking slowly into the night of abysmal
stupidity is actually the most disagreeable thing of all.^
Weber adjusted to this feeling by having his fill of alcohol in the
evening and going through the military routine the next day in the
daze of a moderate hangover. Then he felt 'that the hours fly away
because nothing, not a single thought, stirs under my skull.' Although
8 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
he finally built up his endurance and met most of the physical demands
quite well, he never measured up to the gymnastic acrobatics. Once
a sergeant shouted at him, in Berlin dialect: 'Man, you look like a barrel
of beer swinging on a trapeze.' He made up for this deficiency by per-
fecting his marching endurance and his goosestep. At no time did he
cease to rebel against the
incredible waste of time required to domesticate thinking beings into ma-
chines responding to commands with automatic precision. . . One is sup-
posed to learn patience by observing for an hour each day all sorts of sense-
less things which are called military education. As if, my God! after three
months of the manual of arms for hours every day and the innumerable in-
sults of the most miserable scoundrels, one could ever be suspected of
suffering from lack of patience. The officer candidate is supposed to be de-
prived of the possibility of using his mind during the period of military
training.^
Yet Weber was quite objective; he admitted that the body works
more precisely when all thinking is eliminated. And after he received
his officer's commission, he quickly learned to see the brighter side of
army life. He was well esteemed by his superior officers, and contributed
tall stories and a keen sense of humor to the comradeship of the officers'
mess; and, as one capable of command, he won the respect of the men
under him.
The military year was over in 1884 and at the age of 20 Weber re-
sumed his university studies in Berlin and Goettingen, where, two years
later, he took his first examination in law. But during the summer of
1885 and again in 1887 he returned to Strassburg for military exercises.
And in 1888 he participated in military maneuvers in Posen. There he
felt at close range the atmosphere of the German-Slavonic border, which
seemed to him a 'cultural' frontier. His discussion of Channing, in a letter
addressed to his mother, is characteristic of his thinking at this time.
Channing had made a deep impression upon him, but Weber could
not go along with his ethical absolutism and pacifism. T simply cannot
see what moral elevation will result from placing military professionals
on a footing with a gang of murderers and holding them up for public
disdain. War would not thereby gain in humaneness.' Characteristically,
Weber does not enter into a theological dispute about the Sermon on the
Mount; he keeps at a distance from Channing by locating his perspective
in the social and historical situation; he tries thereby to 'understand' and,
at the same time, he relativizes Channing's position. 'Channing obviously
A BIOGRAPHICAL VIEW 9
has no idea of such matters [war and desertion]. He has in mind the
conditions of American enhsted armies with which the predatory wars
of the democratic American federal Government against Mexico etc. have
been fought.' ^ The arguments indicate, in nuce, the position that Weber
later argues, in the last section of Politics as a Vocation and in the discus-
sion of religion and politics in Religious Rejections of the World.^
It is characteristic of Weber's way of life that in Strassburg his main
social experience remained within his family situation. Two of his
mother's sisters were married to Strassburg professors; and Weber
found friendship and intellectual discourse as well as profound emotional
experience in their houses. Some of the Baumgarten family were ex-
ceptionally prone to mystical and religious experiences, and young Weber
participated with great sympathy in the tensions that these experiences
occasioned. He became the confidant of almost everyone concerned,
learning to appreciate and sympathize with their respective values. He
spoke of himself as 'Ich Weltmensch' and tried to find a workable solu-
tion for the several persons involved. And for Weber this meant
going beyond ethical absolutism: 'The matter does not appear to me
to be so desperate if one does not ask too exclusively (as the Baum-
gartens, now as often, do) : "Who is morally right and who is morally
wrong?" But if one rather asks: "Given the existing conflict, how can
I solve it with the least internal and external damage for all con-
cerned?"'° Weber thus suggested a pragmatic view, a focus on the
consequences of various decisions rather than on the stubborn insistence
upon the introspective awareness of one's intense sincerity. His early let-
ters and the experiences at Strassburg clearly point to his later distinction
between an ethic of responsibility and an ethic of absolute ends.
Weber concluded his studies and took up service in the law courts
of Berlin, in which city he lived with his parents. In the early 'eighties,
he settled down, a diligent student of law, in the lecture rooms of the
eminent jurists of the time. Among them, he admired Gneist, whose
lectures directed his attention to current pohtical problems. 'I find his
lectures true masterpieces; really, I have wondered about his manner
of directly entering questions of politics and about the way he de-
velops strictly liberal views without becoming a propagandist, which
Treitschke does become in his lectures on state and church.' ^°
Weber concentrated upon a field in which economic and legal history
overlapped. He wrote his Ph.D. thesis on the history of trading com-
10 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
panics during the Middle Ages (1889), examining hundreds of ItaHan
and Spanish references and learning both languages in order to do so.
In 1890 he passed his second examination in law. He habilitated himself
in Berhn for commercial, German, and Roman law with a treatise on
what Marx once called 'the secret history of the Romans,' namely, The
History of Agrarian Institutions (1891). The modest title actually covers
a sociological, economic, and cultural analysis of ancient society, a theme
to which Weber repeatedly returned. He had to defend one of the finer
points of his thesis against Theodor Mommsen. At the end of the in-
conclusive exchange, the eminent historian asserted that he knew of no
better man to succeed him 'than the highly esteemed Max Weber.'
In the spring of 1892, a grand niece of Max Weber, Sr., came to Berlin
in order to educate herself for a profession. Marianne Schnitger, the
twenty-one-year-old daughter of a doctor, had attended a finishing school
in the city of Hanover. Upon returning to Berlin after an earlier visit to
the Weber home, she realized that she was in love with Max Weber.
After some confusion, Victorian misunderstandings, and moral attempts
at self-clarification, Max and Marianne announced their formal engage-
ment. They were married in the fall of 1893.
For some six years before his marriage to Marianne, Weber had been
in love with a daughter of his mother's sister in Strassburg, who, for
rather long periods, was in a mental hospital. She was recovering when
Weber gently broke with her. He never forgot that he had unwillingly
caused suffering to this tender girl. It was perhaps an important reason
for the mildness of his reactions to others who were guilty in the field of
personal relations and for his general stoicism in personal affairs. In
addition to this situation, another moral difficulty had stood in the way
of the marriage. Perhaps because of Weber's hesitancy in approaching
Marianne, a friend of his had courted her, and it was somewhat painful
to Weber to cut in.
After his marriage to Marianne, Weber lived the life of a successful
young scholar in Berlin. Having taken the place of Jakob Goldschmidt,
a famous teacher of economics who had become ill, he was in lecture
hall and seminar nineteen hours a week. He also participated in state
examinations for lawyers and, in addition, imposed a heavy load of work
upon himself. He was active in consultation work for government agen-
A BIOGRAPHICAL VIEW II
cies, and made special studies for private reform groups, one on the stock
exchange, and another on the estates in Eastern Germany.
In the fall of 1894, he accepted a full professorship in economics at
Freiburg University. There he met Hugo Miinsterberg, Pastor Naumann,
and Wilhelm Rickert. He had an enormous load, working until very late.
When Marianne urged him to get some rest, he would call out : 'If I don't
work until one o'clock I can't be a professor.'
In 1895, the Webers made a trip to Scotland and the west coast of
Ireland. Returning to Freiburg, Weber gave his inaugural address at
the University. It was entitled, 'The National State and Economic Policy,'
and was a confession of belief in imperialist Realpolitil^ and the House
of Hohenzollern. It caused quite a stir. 'The brutality of my views,' he
wrote, 'have caused horror. The Catholics were the most content with it,
because I gave a firm kick to "Ethical Culture." '
Weber accepted a chair at Heidelberg in 1896, replacing the eminent
and retired Knies, one of the heads of 'the historical school.' He thus
became the colleague of former teachers, Fischer, Bekker, and others,
who still stamped the intellectual and social life of Heidelberg. His circle
of friends included Georg Jellinek, Paul Hensel, Karl Neumann, the
art historian, and Ernst Troeltsch, the religionist, who was to become
one of Weber's greatest friends and intellectual companions, and who
for a time lived in the Weber household.
Max Weber's father died in 1897, shortly after a tense discussion in
which Max heatedly defended his mother against what seemed to him
autocratic impositions. Later Weber felt that his hostile outbreak against
his father was a guilty act which could never be rectified.^^ During the
following summer, the Webers traveled to Spain and on the return trip
Weber became fevered and ill with a psychic malady. He seemed to get
better when the academic year began, but towards the end of the fall
semester he collapsed from tension and remorse, exhaustion and anxiety.
For his essentially psychiatric condition, doctors prescribed cold water,
travel, and exercise. Yet Weber continued to experience the sleeplessness
of an inner tension.
For the rest of his life he suffered intermittently from severe depres-
sions, punctuated by manic spurts of extraordinarily intense intellectual
work and travel. Indeed, his way of life from this time on seems to
12 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
oscillate between neurotic collapse, travel, and work. He was held to-
gether by a profound sense of humor and an unusually fearless practice
of the Socratic maxim.
Eager to make the best of a bad situation and to comfort his wife,
Weber wrote:
Such a disease has its compensations. It has reopened to me the human
side of life, which mama used to miss in me. And this to an extent previously
unknown to me. I could say, with John Gabriel Borkman, that 'an icy hand
has let me loose.' In years past my diseased disposition expressed itself in a
frantic grip upon scientific work, which appeared to me as a talisman. . .
Looking back, this is quite clear. I know that sick or healthy, I shall no
longer be the same. The need to feel crushed under the load of work is
extinct. Now I want most of all to live out my life humanly and to see my
love as happy as it is possible for me to make her. I do not believe that I
shall achieve less than formerly in my inner treadmill, of course, always in
proportion to my condition, the permanent improvement of which will in
any case require much time and rest.^^
He repeatedly attempted to continue his teaching. During one such
attempt his arms and back became temporarily paralyzed, yet he forced
himself to finish the semester. He felt dreadfully tired out; his head
was weary; every mental effort, especially speech, was felt to be detri-
mental to his entire being. In spite of occasional wrath and impatience,
he thought of his condition as part of his fate. He rejected all 'good
counsel.' Since adolescence, everything about him had been geared for
thinking. And now, every intellectual pursuit became a poison to him.
He had not developed any artistic abilities, and physical work of any
sort was distasteful. His wife attempted to persuade him to take up
some craft or hobby, but he laughed at her. For hours he sat and gazed
stupidly, picking at his finger nails, claiming that such inactivity made
him feel good. When he tried to look at his lecture notes, the words
swam in confusion before his eyes. One day, while walking in a v/ood,
he lost his sensory control and openly wept. A pet cat made him so angry
with its mewing that he was quite beyond himself in rage. These symp-
toms were present during the years 1898 and 1899. The university
authorities granted him a leave with pay. Years later, in a letter to his
friend, Karl Vossler, Weber wrote : ' "Misery teaches prayer." . . . Al-
ways? According to my personal experience, I should like to dispute
this statement. Of course, I agree with you that it holds very frequently,
all too frequently for man's dignity.' ^*
A BIOGRAPHICAL VIEW I3
One fall the Webers traveled to Venice for 'a vacation,' They returned
to Heidelberg and again Weber tried to resume some of his duties, but
soon collapsed, more severely than ever before. At Christmas he asked
to be dismissed from his position, but the University granted him a long
leave of absence with a continuance of salary. 'He could not read or
write, speak, walk, or sleep without pain; all mental and part of his
physical functions refused to work.' ^^
Early in 1899, ^^ entered a small mental institution and remained
there alone for several weeks. A young psychopathic cousin of Weber's
was brought to the institution, and during the winter, on medical ad-
vice, Weber's wife traveled with both men to Ajaccio on the island of
Corsica. In the spring, they went to Rome, the ruins of which re-stimu-
lated Weber's historical interest. He felt depressed by the presence of the
psychopathic youth, who was then sent home. Several years later, this
youth took his own life. Weber's letter of condolence to the parents
gives us some insight into his freedom from conventional attitudes to-
wards suicide.
He was a man [he wrote of the cousin] who, chained to an incurably dis-
eased body, yet had developed, perhaps because of it, a sensitivity of feeling, a
clarity about himself, and a deeply hidden and proud and noble height of
inner deportment such as is found among few healthy people. To know and to
judge this is given only to those who have seen him quite near and who have
learned to love him as we have, and who, at the same time, personally know
what disease is. . . His future being what it was, he has done right to depart
now to the unknown land and to go before you, who otherwise would have
had to leave him behind on this earth, walking toward a dark fate, without
counsel, and in loneliness.^^
With such an evaluation of suicide as a last and stubborn affirmation of
man's freedom, Weber takes his stand at the side of such modern
Stoics as Montaigne, Hume, and Nietzsche. He was, at the same time,
of the opinion that religions of salvation do not approve of 'voluntary
death,' that only philosophers have hallowed it.^^
Under the influence of the magnificent landscape of Italy and its his-
torically grandiose scenes, Weber slowly recovered. The Webers also
spent some time in Switzerland, where his mother, now 57, and his
brother Alfred visited them. Shortly after his mother's visit. Max was
able to resume reading, a book on art history. He commented: 'Who
knows how long I can keep it up.? Anything but literature in my own
field.' After three and a half years of intermittently severe disease, in
14 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
1902 Weber felt able to return to Heidelberg and resume a light sched-
ule of work. Gradually, he began to read professional journals and such
books as Simmel's Philosophy of Money. Then, as if to make up for
his years of intellectual privation, he plunged into a vast and universal
literature in which art history, economics, and politics stood alongside
the economic history of monastic orders.
There were, however, repeated setbacks. He was still unable fully to
take up his teaching work. He asked to be dismissed from his profes-
sorship and to be made a titular professor. This request was first re-
jected, but at his insistence, he was made a lecturer. He had requested
the right to examine Ph.D. candidates, but this was not granted. After
four and a half years without production he was able to write a book
review. A new phase of writing finally began, at first dealing with
problems of method in the social sciences.
Weber suffered under the psychic burden of receiving money from
the university without rendering adequate service. He felt that only a
man at his work is a full man, and he forced himself to work. Yet after
only a summer of it, he returned to Italy alone. During the year 1903,
he traveled out of Germany no less than six times; he was in Italy,
Holland, and Belgium. His own nervous condition, his disappointment
at his own insufficiencies, frictions with the Heidelberg faculty, and the
political state of the nation occasionally made him wish to turn his back
on Germany forever. Yet during this year, 1903, he managed to join
with Sombart in the editorship of the Archiv fi'ir Sozialivissenschajt und
Sozialpoliti^, which became perhaps the leading social science journal in
Germany, until suppressed by the Nazis. This editorship provided Weber
an opportunity to resume contact with a wide circle of scholars and
politicians and to broaden the focus of his own work. By 1904, his pro-
ductivity was in full swing again and rising steeply. He published
essays on the social and economic problems of Junker estates, objectivity
in the social sciences, and the first section of the Protestant Ethic and the
Spirit of Capitalism.
Hugo Miinsterberg, his colleague from Freiburg days, had helped
organize a 'Congress of Arts and Science' as part of the Universal Ex-
position of 1904 in St. Louis. He invited Weber (along with Sombart,
Troeltsch, and many others) to read a paper before the Congress.^^ By
August, Weber and his wife were on the way to America.
A BIOGRAPHICAL VIEW I5
Max Weber's reaction to the United States was at once enthusiastic
and detached. He possessed to an eminent degree the 'virtue' which
Edward Gibbon ascribes to the studious traveler abroad, that Virtue
which borders on a vice; the flexible temper which can assimilate itself
to every tone of society from the court to the cottage; the happy flow of
spirits which can amuse and be amused in every company and situa-
tion.' ^^ Hence Weber was impatient and angry with quickly prejudiced
colleagues, who, after a day and a half in New York, began to run down
things in America.
He wished to enter sympathetically into the new world without sur-
rendering his capacity for informed judgments at a later time. He was
fascinated by the rush hour in lower Manhattan, which he liked to
view from the middle of Brooklyn Bridge as a panorama of mass trans-
portation and noisy motion. The skyscrapers, which he saw as 'fortresses
of capital,' reminded him of 'the old pictures of the towers in Bologna
and Florence.' And he contrasted these towering bulks of capitalism with
the tiny homes of American college professors:
Among these masses, all individualism becomes expensive, whether it is in
housing or eating. Thus, the home of Professor Hervay, of the German de-
partment in Columbia University, is surely a doll's house with tiny little
rooms, with toilet and bath facilities in the same room (as is almost always
the case). Parties with more than four guests are impossible (worthy of be-
ing envied!) and with all this, it takes one hour's ride to get to the center of
the city. . .^^
From New York the party journeyed to Niagara Falls. They visited
a small town and then went on to Chicago, which Weber found 'incred-
ible.' He noted well its lawlessness and violence, its sharp contrasts of gold
coast and slum, the 'steam, dirt, blood, and hides' of the stockyards, the
'maddening' mixture of peoples:
the Greek shining the Yankee's shoes lor five cents, the German acting as his
waiter, the Irishman managing his politics, and the Italian digging his dirty
ditches. With the exception of some exclusive residential districts, the whole
gigantic city, more extensive than London, is like a man whose skin has
been peeled off and whose entrails one sees at work.
Again and again, Weber was impressed by the extent of waste, espe-
cially the waste of human life, under American capitalism. He noticed
l6 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
the same conditions tliat the muckrakers were pubUcizing at the time.
Thus he commented, in a letter to his mother:
After their work, the workers often have to travel for hours in order to
reach their homes. The tramway company has been bankrupt for years. As
usual a receiver, who has no interest in speeding up the liquidation, manages
its affairs; therefore, new tram cars are not purchased. The old cars con-
standy break down, and about four hundred people a year are thus killed
or crippled. According to the law, each death costs the company about
$5,000, which is paid to the widow or heirs, and each cripple costs $10,000,
paid to the casualty himself. These compensations are due so long as the
company does not introduce certain precautionary measures. But they have
calculated that the four hundred casualties a year cost less than would the
necessary precautions. The company therefore does not introduce them.^°
In St. Louis, Weber delivered a successful lecture on the social struc-
ture of Germany, with particular reference to rural and political prob-
lems. This was his first 'lecture' in six and a half years. Many of his
colleagues were present, and according to the report of his wife, who
was also present, his talk was very well received. This was gratifying to
the Webers, as it seemed to indicate that he was again able to function
in his profession. He traveled through the Oklahoma territory, and vis-
ited New Orleans as well as the Tuskegee Institution; he visited distant
relatives in North Carolina and Virginia; and then, in fast tempo, trav-
eled through Philadelphia, Washington, Baltimore, and Boston. In New
York, he searched the hbrary of Columbia University for materials to
be used in The Protestant Ethic.
Of the Americans [whom we met] it was a woman, an inspector of in-
dustry, who was by far the most pre-eminent figure. One learned a great deal
about the radical evil of this world from this passionate socialist. The hope-
lessness of social legislation in a system of state particularism, the corruption
of many labor leaders who incite strikes and then have the manufacturer
pay them for settling them. (I had a personal letter of introduction to such a
scoundrel.) . . . and yet, [the Americans] are a wonderful people. Only the
Negro question and the terrible immigration form a big, black cloud.^^
During his travels in America Weber seems to have been most in-
terested in labor problems, the immigrant question, problems of politi-
cal management — especially of municipal government — all expressions
of the 'capitahst spirit,' ^" the Indian question and its administration, the
plight of the South, and the Negro problem. Of the American Negro,
Weber wrote: 'I have talked to about one hundred white Southerners
A BIOGRAPHICAL VIEW V]
of all social classes and parties, and the problem of what shall become
of these people [the Negroes] seems absolutely hopeless.'
He had arrived in America in September 1904; he left for Germany
shortly before Christmas.*
Perhaps the United States was for Weber what England had been for
previous generations of German liberals: the model of a new society.
Here the Protestant sects had had their greatest scope and in their wake
the secular, civic, and 'voluntary associations' had flowered. Here a po-
litical federation of states had led to a 'voluntary' union of immense
contrasts.
Weber was far from the conceit of those German civil servants who
prided themselves in their 'honest administration' and pointed disdain-
fully to the 'corrupt practices' of American politics. Friedrich Kapp, a
returned German-American, had brought such attitudes home to Weber.
But Weber saw things in a broader perspective. Being convinced that
politics are not to be judged solely as a moral business, his attitude was
rather that of Charles Sealsfield, who had, during the eighteen-thirties,
unfolded an epic panorama of the birth of an empire-building nation
destined to 'take its place among the mightiest nations upon the earth.'
Sealsfield had asked, 'Is it not rather a necessary, absolute condition of
our liberty that citizens' virtues, as well as their vices, should grow more
luxuriantly because they are freely permitted to grow and increase.?'
Weber might have agreed, after what he saw, that 'the mouth which
breathes the mephitic vapors of the Mississippi and the Red River
swamps is not fit to chew raisins, that the hand which fells our gigantic
trees and drains our bogs cannot put on kid gloves. Our land is the
land of contrast.' ^^
The key focus of Weber's experience of America was upon the role
of bureaucracy in a democracy. He saw that 'machine politics' were in-
dispensable in modern 'mass democracy,' unless a 'leaderless democracy'
and a confusion of tongues were to prevail. Machine politics, however, i
mean the management of politics by professionals, by the disciplined
party organization and its streamlined propaganda. Such democracy may
also bring to the helm the Caesarist people's tribune, whether in the role
of the strong president or the city manager. And the whole process
*Some translations of Weber's letters from the United States are contained in H. W.
Brann, 'Max Weber and the United States,' Southwestern Social Science Quarterly, June
1944, pp. 18-30.
THE MAN AND HIS WORK
tends towards increasing rational efficiency and therewith bureaucratic
machines: party, municipal, federal.
Weber saw this machine-building, however, in a dialectic fashion:
Democracy must oppose bureaucracy as a tendency towards a caste of
mandarins, removed from the common people by expert training, exam-
ination certificates, and tenure of office, but: the scope of administrative
functions, the end of the open frontier, and the narrowing of oppor-
tunities make the spoils system, with its public waste, irregularities, and
lack of technical efficiency, increasingly impossible and undemocratic.
Thus democracy has to promote what reason demands and democratic
sentiment hates. In his writings, Weber repeatedly refers to those Ameri-
can workers who opposed civil-service reform by arguing that they pre-
ferred a set of corrupt politicians whom they could oust and despise, to
a caste of expert officials who would despise them and who were irre-
movable. Weber was instrumental in having the German President's
power strengthened as a balance of the Reichstag; this act should be
understood along with his American experiences. He was, above all, im-
pressed by the grandiose efficiency of a type of man, bred by free asso-
ciations in which the individual had to prove himself before his equals,
where no authoritative commands, but autonomous decision, good sense,
and responsible conduct train for citizenship.
In 191 8 Weber suggested in a letter to a colleague that Germany should
borrow the American 'club pattern' as a means of 're-educating' Ger-
many; for, he wrote, 'authoritarianism now fails completely, except in
the form of the church.' ^^ Weber thus saw the connection between
voluntary associations and the personality structure of the free man. His
study of the Protestant sect testifies to that. He was convinced that the
automatic selection of persons, with the pressure always upon the in-
dividual to prove himself, is an infinitely deeper way for 'toughening'
man than the ordering and forbidding technique of authoritarian insti-
tutions. For such authoritarianism does not reach into the innermost of
those subject to its external constraint, and it leaves them incapable of
self-direction once the authoritarian shell is broken by counter-violence.
Upon his return to Germany, Max Weber resumed his writing at
Heidelberg. He finished the second part of The Protestant Ethic, which
in a letter to Rickert he called 'Protestant asceticism as the foundation
A BIOGRAPHICAL VIEW IQ
of modern vocational civilization — a sort of "spiritualist" construction of
the modern economy.' ~^'
The first Russian revolution redirected his scholarly work; he learned
Russian, in bed before getting up each morning, in order to follow
events in the Russian daily press. Then he chased 'after the events with
his pen in order to pin them down as daily history.' In 1901 he pub-
lished two major essays on Russia, 'The Situation of Bourgeois Democ-
racy in Russia' and 'Russia's Transition to Sham Constitutionalism.'
Eminent social scientists, such as SchmoUer and Brentano, encouraged
him to resume a professorship, but Weber felt he was not capable of
doing so. For a while longer, he wanted merely to write. Yet, being
universally esteemed, he could not help being drawn into academic poli-
tics, judging prospective candidates for positions, or trying to open up
room for various younger scholars, such as Georg Simmel and Robert
Michels, to whom satisfactory careers were blocked or precluded because
of anti-Semitism or prejudice against young socialist docents. The case
of Robert Michels, the son of an eminent Cologne family of patrician
merchants, especially enraged Weber. At the time, German universities
were closed to him because he was a social democrat. Weber asserted
that, 'If I compare Italian, French, and, at the moment, even Russian
conditions with this condition of ours, I have to consider it a shame of
a civilized nation.' Some professor maintained that in addition to political
reasons for Michels' exclusion there was the further reason that Michels
had not baptized his children. Upon this Weber wrote an article in the
Frankjurter Zeitung on 'The So-called Academic Freedom,' in which
he said:
As long as such views prevail, I see no possibility of behaving as if we had
such a thing as academic freedom. . . And as long as religious communities
knowingly and openly allovi^ their sacraments to be used as means for making
a career, on the same level of a dueling corps or an officer's commission, they
deserve the disdain about which they are so used to complaining.^^
In 1908 he investigated the industrial psychology of his grandfather's
linen factory in WestphaUa. He had hoped to promote a series of such
studies, and the methodological note he wrote is a causal analysis of
physical and psychic factors influencing the productivity of industrial
labor. In this same year, he worked out a long essay on the social struc-
ture of ancient society, published in an encyclopedia * under the modest
* Handwdrterbitch der Staatswissenschaften, 3rd ed., vol. i.
20 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
and somewhat misleading title, 'The Agrarian Institutions of Antiquity.'
A disciple of Freud made his appearance in the intellectual circles in
Heidelberg in 1909. Conventional Victorian conceptions of marital fidel-
ity and of morally justified jealousy were depreciated in the name of a
new norm of mentally healthy living. Full of sympathy for the tragic
entanglements and moral difficulties of friends, which resulted from this
conduct, Weber reacted sharply against what appeared to him a con-
fusion of valuable, though still imprecise, psychiatric insights with an
ethic of vulgar pride in 'healthy nerves.' He was not willing to accept
healthy nerves as an absolute end, or to calculate the moral worth of
repression in terms of its cost to one's nerves. Weber thought that the
therapeutic technique of Freud was a resuscitation of the oral confes-
sion, with the clinician displacing the old directeur d'dme. He felt that
an ethic was disguised in the scientific discussion of the clinician, and
that in this matter a specialized scientist, who should be concerning him-
self only with means, was usurping from laymen their right to make
their own evaluations. Weber thus saw a 'loose' way of life draped in
what he felt was a shifting clinical theory. One can easily see that he
resisted a theory that is, in principle, directed against asceticism and
that conceives of ends only in pragmatic terms, thus deflating the im-
perative claim of heroic ethics. Being personally characterized by an
extremely stern conscience, Weber was often ready to forgive others
but was quite rigid with himself. He believed that many of those who
followed in the wake of Freud were too ready to justify what appeared
to him as moral shabbiness.
It should, however, be noted that although Weber was not willing to
see Freud's disciples use their theories in this personal way, he had
no doubt that Freud's ideas can become a source of highly significant inter-
pretations of a whole series of cultural and historical, moral and religious
phenomena. Of course, from the point of view of a cultural historian, their
significance is not nearly so universal as the understandable enthusiasms of
Freud and his disciples, in the joy of their discovery, would have us believe.
A precondition would be the establishment of an exact typology of a scope
and certainty which does not exist today, despite all assertions to the con-
trary, but which perhaps will exist in two to three decades.^'^
In Heidelberg, during these years from 1906 to 1910, Weber partici-
pated in intense intellectual discussions with such eminent colleagues as
A BIOGRAPHICAL VIEW 21
his brother, Alfred Weber, with Otto Klebs, Eberhard Gothein, Wilhelm
Windelband, Georg JelUnek, Ernst Troeltsch, Karl Neumann, Emil
Lask, Friedrich Gundolf, and Arthur Salz. During vacation times or
other 'free periods,' many friends from outside Heidelberg visited the
Webers. Among them were Robert Michels, Werner Sombart, the phi-
losopher Paul Hensel, Hugo Miinsterberg, Ferdinand Tonnies, Karl
Vossler, and, above all, Georg Simmel. Among the younger scholars who
sought Weber's stimulus were: Paul Honigsheim, Karl Lowenstein, and
Georg Lukacs. These circles were not closed to the non-academic; they
included a few eminent artists, such as Mina Tobler, the musician to
whom Weber dedicated his study of Hinduism and Buddhism, as well
as the former actress, Klare Schmid-Romberg, and her husband, a poet,
philosopher, and connoisseur of art. Karl Jaspers, a psychiatrist who was
to turn philosopher and use Kierkegaard's work in his philosophy of
existentialism, and H. Gruhle, a psychiatrist interested in the latest of
modern art, also belonged to the circle. Three generations of intellectual
and artistic elite were in active discourse at these Heidelberg meeting-s.
In 1908 Max Weber was active in establishing a sociological society.
In a selfless manner, he carried the routine burdens of overcoming the
usual difficulties of such organizations. He was decisive in setting the
level of discussion at the meetings and in defining the scope of future
work. He stimulated collective research enterprises, such as an investi-
gation of voluntary associations, ranging from athletic leagues to re-
ligious sects and political parties. He proposed a methodical study of
the press by questionnaires, and directed and prompted studies in in-
dustrial psychology. In addition, he assumed responsibility to the pub-
lisher Siebeck of organizing an encyclopedic series of social-science
studies. This latter project was intended as a two-year job, but it con-
tinued even after his death, his own Wirtschajt und Gesellschajt appear-
ing posthumously as a volume in the series.
The severity of Weber's sense of honor, his prompt chivalry, and his
position as a reserve officer occasionally impelled him to engage in court
actions and 'affairs of honor.' It was characteristic of him to act with
great impetuosity and righteous indignation. Yet when his opponent had
been morally crushed by the machinery he had set in motion, his furor
cooled, and he was overcome by mercifulness and sympathy, the more
so when he realized that others besides the guilty one suffered from his
actions. Close friends who did not feel so strongly as Weber in such
matters were inclined to consider him a querulous man who lacked a
22 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
sense of measure, a Don Quixote whose actions might well boomerang.
Others hailed him as Germany's foremost educator, whose moral au-
thority raised him above the shoulders of the spineless Philistines, out
only for their own careers. His Don Quixote aspect comes out clearly in
a statement he made to his friend, Theodor Heuss, in 1917: 'As soon as
the war has come to an end, I shall insult the Kaiser until he suesjne,
and then the responsible statesmen, Biilow, Tirpitz, and Bethmann-
Hollweg, will be compelled to make statements under oath.' ^^
When the First World War began, Weber was 50. 'In spite of all,' it
was 'a great and wonderful war,' "^ and he wanted to march at the head
of his company. That his age and medical condition made this impos-
sible was painful to him. But as a member of the reserve corps, he was
commissioned as a disciplinary and economic officer, a captain, in charge
of establishing and running nine hospitals in the Heidelberg area. In
this position he experienced from the inside what had become a central
concept in his sociology: bureaucracy. The social apparatus of which
he had charge was, however, one of dilettantes, rather than of experts;
and Weber worked for and witnessed its transformation into an or-
dered bureaucracy. From August 1914 to the fall of 1915, he served this
commission, which was then dissolved in a reorganization, and Weber
honorably retired. His political frustrations during the war will be dis-
cussed presently.
He went to Brussels for a short time in order to confer with Jaffe
about the administration of the occupation of Belgium. Then he went
to Berlin, as a self-appointed prophet of doom, to write memoranda,
seek contact with political authorities, and fight the mad imperialist
aspiration. In the final analysis, he debunked the conduct of the war-
party as being the gamble of munition makers and agrarian capitalists.
From Berlin he went to Vienna and Budapest, in the service of the
government, to conduct unofficial conversations with industrialists about
tariff questions.
In the fall of 1916 he was back in Heidelberg, studying the Hebrew
prophets and working on various sections of Wirtschaft und Gesell-
schaft. In the summer of 191 7 he vacationed at his wife's home in West-
phalia, reading the poetry of Stefan George and Gundolf's book on
Goethe. In the winters of 1917 and 1918, socialist-pacifist students fre-
quented his 'open hours' on Sundays in Heidelberg. The young com-
munist, Ernst Toller, was among them; frequently he read his poetry
aloud. Later, when Toller was arrested, Weber spoke for him in the
A BIOGRAPHICAL VIEW 23
military court and effected his release, although he could not prevent
the removal of the student group from the university.
In April 1918, he moved to Vienna for a summer term at the uni-
versity. These were his first university lectures for nineteen years. Under
the title, 'A Positive Critique of the Materialist Conception of History,'
he presented his sociology of world religions and politics. His lectures
became events for the university, and he had to perform them in the
largest hall available, as professors, state officials, and politicians attended.
Yet he experienced compulsive anxieties about these lectures, using
opiates in order to induce sleep. Vienna University offered him a per-
manent position, but he did not accept.
In 1918 Weber shifted from Monarchist to Republican loyalties. As
Meinecke said, 'We have turned from being Monarchists at heart to
being Republicans by reason.' He abstained from accepting any political
position in the new regime. A whole series of academic positions were
offered to him: Berlin, Gottingen, Bonn, and Munich. He accepted the
Munich offer, going there in the summer of 1919 as Brentano's suc-
cessor. In Munich, he lived through the excitement of the Bavarian Dic-
tatorship and its collapse. His last lectures were worked out at the re-
quest of his students and have been published as General Economic
History. In midsummer, he fell ill, and, at a late stage of his disease, a
doctor was able to diagnose his condition as deep-seated pneumonia. He
died in June 1920.
Max Weber belonged to a generation of universal scholars, and there
are definite sociological conditions for scholarship of the kind he dis-
played. One such condition was a gymnasium education, which, in
Weber's case, equipped him in such a way that the Indo-Germanic
languages were but so many dialects of one linguistic medium. (A read-
ing knowledge of Hebrew and Russian was acquired by the way.) An
intellectually stimulating family background gave him a head-start and
made it possible for him to study an unusual combination of specialized
subjects. When he had passed his law examination, he was at the same
time a well-equipped economist, historian, and philosopher. And by vir-
tue of having participated, through the Strassburg branch of his family,
in the theological disputes of the time, he was sufficiently acquainted
with the literature of theology to handle it expertly.
It is clear that the enormous amount of work Weber turned out
24 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
would not have been possible without a certain type o£ fruitful leisure.
Materially, this was made possible, at first, by his position as a scholar
in a German university. The career pattern in these universities gave the
German docent time for research during the years when the young
American academician is overburdened with teaching. In addition, there
was no pressure for rapid publication — as attested by the fact that many
book-length chapters of Wirtschaft und Gesellschajt, written before
World War I, were published after 1920. In his middle life Weber came
into an inheritance that was sufficient to relieve him of serious worry
about money.
The relative lack of pressure for 'practical' and immediately 'useful'
knowledge, conditioned by a strongly humanist atmosphere, allowed for
the pursuit of themes remote from the practical demands of the day. In
the social sciences this was the more the case because the impact of
Marxism almost required that the academician take up the question of
capitaUsm as an epochal structure, rather than narrowed and 'practical'
themes. In this connection the freedom of the university from local pres-
sures was important.
Long decades of peace for Germany, from 1870 to 1914, coupled with
general prosperity, had entirely changed the conditions of German schol-
arship. The petty bourgeois professor, harried by money matters, had
been replaced by an upper-class academician with a large home and a
maid. This change facilitated the establishment of an intellectual salon.
It is from this position that Weber saw the residences of American uni-
versity professors.
The intellectual traditions and the accumulated scholarship of Ger-
many, especially in history, the classics, psychology, theology, compara-
tive literature, philology, and philosophy, gave the late-nineteenth-cen-
tury German scholar a pre-eminent base upon which to build his work.
And the clash of two bodies of intellectual work, the conservative inter-
pretation of ideas by academicians in the tradition of Hegel and Ranke,
and the radical intellectual production of non-academic socialists, Kaut-
sky, Bernstein, and Mehring, formed a unique and challenging intel-
lectual tension.
A number of contradictory elements stood in tension with one another
and made up the life and views of Max Weber. If, as he wrote, 'men
are not open books,' we should certainly not expect to find even an easy
index to his many-sided existence. To understand him, we have to grasp
a series of irrational half-paradoxes.
A BIOGRAPHICAL VIEW 25
Although he was personally irreligious — in his own words, 'religiously
unmusical' — he nevertheless spent a good part of his scholarly energy
in tracing the effects of religion upon human conduct and life. It may
not be irrelevant in this connection to repeat that his mother and her
family were deeply pious and that in his early student days Weber lived
close to friends and relatives who suffered extraordinary religious and
psychic states; these experiences profoundly impressed themselves upon
him. That he despised the conventional 'church' Christianity goes with-
out saying, yet he had pity and condescension for those who in political
tragedy and personal despair sacrificed their intellects to the refuge of
the altar.
Many of his friends considered his sincere devotion to his work, the
obvious pathos and dignity of his bearing, and the forcefulness and in-
sight of his speech as religious phenomena. Yet his work is hardly un-
derstandable without an appreciation of his disenchanted view of re-
ligious matters. His love for his mother and his genuine detachment
from 'religion' prevented him from ever falling into the Promethean
blasphemy of Nietzsche, the greatest atheist of the nineteenth century,
which he saw, in the last analysis, as a 'painful residue of the bourgeois
Philistine.' '°
Weber was one of the last of the 'political professors' who made de-
tached contributions to science, and, as the intellectual vanguard of the
middle classes, were also leading political figures. Despite this fact, for
the sake of 'objectivity' and the freedom of his students, Weber fought
against 'the Treitschkes,' who used cloistered academic halls as forums
of political propaganda. Although he was passionately concerned with
the course of German policy, in theory he rigidly segregated his role as a
professor and scientist from that of a publicist. Yet, when his friend
Brentano, in Munich, asked him to accept a position, he answered that
were he to accept any professorship, 'I would have to ask whether it would
not be better to have someone who holds my views in Berlin at the
present time as a counterweight against the absolute opportunism which
now has the say there.' ^^
Throughout his life, Weber was a nationalist and believed in the
mission of the Herrenvol\, yet at the same time he fought for individual
freedom and, with analytic detachment, characterized the ideas of na-
tionalism and racism as justificatory ideologies used by the ruling class,
and their hireling publicists, to beat their impositions into weaker mem-
bers of the polity. He had great esteem for the matter-of-fact conduct
26 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
of labor leaders during the collapse of Germany, yet he lashed out against
the doctrinal drill with which these same men domesticated the masses
and trained them to believe in a future 'paradise' to be brought about
by revolution. He was proud of being a Prussian officer, and yet as-
serted in public that the Kaiser, his commander-in-chief, was something
of yv^hich all Germans should be ashamed. A Prussian officer and a
member of a dueling corps, he nevertheless did not mind rooming in a
Brussels hotel over which flew a red. International flag. A model of the
self-conscious masculinity of Imperial Germany, he nevertheless encour-
aged the first woman labor official in Germany and made vital speeches
to members of the woman's emancipation movement of the early twen-
tjieth century. ^
Weber appears to have been an eminent academic teacher, and yet his
health kept him from academic lectures for almost two decades. Al-
though a scholar, he felt out of place in the academic chair and truly
at home on the political platform. In his insistence on precision and
balance, his prose is full of clauses and reservations, in the most schol-
arly and difficult fashion. Yet at times he felt himself to be comparable
to the demagogues of ancient Judea haranguing to the crowd in the
street.
Among those who had dealings with him, the figure of Weber was
highly controversial. At Heidelberg, many of his colleagues saw him as
a difficult person, who because of demanding conscience and rigidity of
honor was highly inconvenient and somewhat troublesome. Perhaps he
was seen as hypochondriac. In the eyes of many friends and disciples, he
appeared as an overtowering intellect. A Viennese journalist describes
him in the following cliches:
Tall and fully bearded, this scholar resembles one of the German stone
masons of the Renaissance period; only the eyes lack the naivete and sensu-
ous joy of the artist. His gaze is from the innermost, from hidden passages,
and it reaches into the greatest distances. His manner of expression corre-
sponds to the man's exterior; it is infinitely plastic. We meet here an almost
Hellenic way of seeing things. The words are simply formed, and, in their
quiet simplicity, they remind us of Cyclopic blocks.
A disciple in Munich, who was personally distant from Weber, wor-
shiping him from afar, compared him to Diirer's knight: without fear
or favor, taking a straight course between death and the devil. And Karl
Jaspers saw him as a new type of man who had the poise to hold to-
A BIOGRAPHICAL VIEW TJ
gether in synthesis the tremendous tensions of his own self as well as
the confadictions of external public life without resorting to illusions.
Every day that Weber 'wasted for things political' instead of objectifying
himself seemed a pitiful loss to Jaspers.
In spite of the pathos of objectivity that is felt so intensely by the
student of Weber's work, it nevertheless contains passages that refer to
Weber's image of himself. The most obvious of these are found in his
characterization of certain Hebrew prophets.^" When the course of the
war and the collapse of Germany confirmed what Weber had anticipated
for two decades, and the German people alone were proclaimed guilty
for all the misfortunes of the war, Weber felt that the Germans were a
pariah people. During the course of his studies in ancient Judaism, in
iQij5 and IQ17, he was profoundly moved by the analogies he saw be-
tween the situation of the ancient Hebrew peoples and modern Ger-
many. It was not only the public and historical situation he saw as
parallel; in the personality of many prophets and in their irregular and
compulsive psychic states, particularly of Jeremiah. Weber saw features
he felt resembled his own. When he read passages of this manuscript to
his wife, she was touched in immediately seeing that this reading was
an indirect analysis of himself.
Perhaps it was only in this fashion that Weber, who since childhood
was incapable of directly revealing himself, could communicate his own
self-image. Thus, what was most personal to him is accessible and at
the same time hidden by the objectification of his work. By interpreting
the prophets of disaster and doom, Weber illuminated his own personal
and public experiences.
This assimilation of his image of self into a historical figure stands
in a broad tradition of humanism, historicism, and romanticism so char-
acteristic of the nineteenth century. Eminent intellectuals and even states-
men of that century often fashioned their images of themselves in the
costumes of historical figures. Thus Napoleon simulated Alexander the
Great; and the revolutionary republicans of the great upheavals saw
themselves in terms of 'the lives of Plutarch.' In Germany, this illusionist
tendency remained strong throughout the epoch of liberalism. Some of
the best of German youth, among them Francis Lieber, went out to
help the Greeks in their fight for liberation against the Turks. But the
ragged horse trader of the Balkan mountains shattered the marble image
of the ancient Greek. Historical illusions were used as a backdrop of one's
life and perhaps to compensate for the banaHty of the Philistinism, which
28 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
circumscribed the daily routine of powerless German professors with
world-encompassing ideas.
If the older Weber identified himself with Jeremiah in the humanist
tradition of illusion, he well knew that he was in truth no prophet. When
urged by an admiring young intelligentsia to expound his faith, he re-
jected their pleas, asserting that such confession belongs to the circle of
intimates and not the public. Only prophets, artists, and saints might bare
their souls in public. For Weber, modern society is godless, and prophets
as well as saints are singularly out of place. He only offered Isaiah's sug-
gestion: 'He calleth to me out of Seir, Watchman, what of the night?
Watchman, what of the night? The watchman said, The morning com-
eth, and also the night: if ye will enquire, enquire ye: return, come.'
(21:11-12.)
8
If we are to understand Weber's biography as a whole, we must ex-
amine his tensions and his repeated psychic disturbances. Several Unes
of interpretation are possible; jointly or separately, they may offer an
explanation.
Max Weber may have been hereditarily burdened by a constitutional
affliction, which undoubtedly ran through his family line. Some evi-
dence for this interpretation, which is the simplest one, is readily at
hand. Weber's wife was a distant relative of his, and male relatives of
hers ended their lives in insane asylums. Furthermore, a cousin of his
entered the asylum, to which Weber himself was sent during his most
severe breakdown.
If we are willing to see Weber's affliction as purely functional, we
may then follow either one of two different lines of evidence: We may
try to locate his personal difficulties in the private contexts of those dear
to him: mother, father, loves, wife; or we may deal primarily with him
in public contexts.
With reference to his personal relations, we may recall that Weber
was a quiet, observant, and prematurely intelligent boy, who must have
been worried under the strain of the increasingly bad relation between
his father and mother. His strong sense of chivalry was, in part, a re-
sponse to the patriarchal and domineering attitude of his father, who
understood his wife's love as a willingness to serve and to allow herself
to be exploited and controlled by him. This situation came to a climax
when Weber, at the age of 31, in the presence of his mother and his
A BIOGRAPHICAL VIEW 29
wife, saw fit to hold judgment over his father: he would remorselessly
break all relations with him unless he met the son's condition: the
mother should visit him 'alone' without the father. We have noted that
the father died only a short time after this encounter and that Weber
came out of the situation with an ineffaceable sense of guilt. One may
certainly infer an inordinately strong Oedipus situation.
Throughout his life, Weber maintained a full correspondence with
his mother, who once referred to him as 'an older daughter,' She eagerly
sought counsel with him, her first-born, rather than with her husband,
in matters concerning the demeanor of her third son. One should also
pay heed to what was, to be sure, a passing phase of young Weber's
aspiration: his desire to become a real he-man at the university. After
only three semesters, he succeeded in changing externally from a slender
mother's boy to a massive, beer-drinking, duel-marked, cigar-puffing
student of Imperial Germany, whom his mother greeted with a slap in
the face. Clearly, this was the father's son. The two models of identifi-
cation and their associated values, rooted in mother and father, never
disappeared from Max Weber's inner life.
A similar tension, and subsequent source of guilt, occurred when
Weber found himself estranged from an earlier love, another cousin o£
his, whom both his mother and his maternal aunt favored. This situa-
tion was all the more painful to him because his mother joyfully saw
Marianne, his future wife, wooed by a close friend of Max. In marrying
Marianne, Weber was thus beset by guilt from two sources: he was
almost ready to resign his love in favor of his friend, and he was almost
ready to marry a mentally burdened and unstable girl. His proposal let-
ter to his wife, dealing with this situation, seems as much a confession
of guilt as a love letter. And later letters to his wife are apologetic for
sacrificing his marriage with her by allowing his energies to be used up
in the 'inner treadmill' of his intellectual life.
The Webers were childless, and he did not fail to assert his virility in
public by summoning others to duels in a manner which stressed his
special dignity as a Prussian officer. Yet at the same time, as a writer,
he was ready publicly to deflate Prussian militarism and its officer-
bureaucracy for standing behind such educational institutions as the
dueling corps designed to 'break in' upper-class youth to the discipline
required in the career, A profound individual humanism, the 'freedom
of a Christian,' and the lofty heights of his ethical demands were derived
from identification with his mother.
30 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
We may shift from personal relations and the difficulties that may
have arisen from them; Weber was also an intellectual involved in the
political events of his day. He made matters of public concern his vol-
untary burden. With an extraordinary sense of responsibility, he felt inti-
mately called to politics. Yet he had no power and no position from
which his word could tip the balance of policy. And tensions arose from
this fact.
Weber does not seem to have had much basis for his intense identifi-
cation with Germany. He tore down the Junkers, the workers, as well
as the spineless Philistines among the middle classes, who longed for a
Caesar to protect them from the bogey of socialist labor and from the
patriarchalism of the petty dynasties. When Weber traveled, his first
idea was to get out of Germany. And only too frequently, with the
resentment of the unsuccessful lover, he throws out angry words about
turning his back forever upon what he felt to be a hopeless nation.
The Kaiser, to whom he was bound by oath as a Prussian officer, was a
constant object of his public contempt.
Only rarely do we get a glimpse into what nourished his love of his
country and people. At the Exposition in St. Louis he viewed the Ger-
man exhibition of arts, crafts, and industrial products with pride, feel-
ing that the skill, imagination, and artistic craftsmanship of the Germans
were second to none. When he mingled with itinerant socialist workers
in Brussels and was told that a good proportion of the most skillful
tailors in Paris and of the most skilled cobblers in London were from
German Austria, he took pride in belonging to a fellowship of self-for-
gotten workers, who knew nothing better than devotion to the work
at hand.
This attitude enables us to understand how his own ascetic drive for
work was linked with his belief that the most prominent traits of the
German people were the plebeian qualities of commoners and workers,
lacking the social graces of the Latin courtier as well as the religiously
motivated discipline and conventionality of the Anglo-Saxon gentleman.
His own devotion to his work was a realization of his duty to the fel-
lowship of Germans. At the end of November 1918, he wrote: 'One has
seen all the weaknesses, but if one wishes, one may also see the fabulous
capacity of work, the superbity and matter-of-factness, the capacity — not
the attainment — of beautifying everyday life, in contrast to the beauty of
ecstacy or of the gestures of other nations.'
A BIOGRAPHICAL VIEW 3I
Just as his relation to his father was a source of guilt, so Weber de-
veloped strong guilt feelings for living under the Kaiser:
The measure of contempt given our nation abroad (Italy, America, every-
where!), and after all deservedly so! — and this is decisive — ^because we tolerate
this man's regime has become a factor for us of first-rate world political im-
portance. Anyone who reads the foreign press for a few months must notice
this. We are isolated because this man rules us in this fashion and because
we tolerate it and whitewash it. No man or party who in any sense cultivates
democratic, and at the same time national, political ideals should assume re-
sponsibility for this regime, the continuance of which endangers our world
position more than all colonial problems of any kind.^^
Surely Weber's life illustrates the manner in which a man's relation to
political authority may be modeled upon his relation to family disci-
plines. One has only to add, with Rousseau, that in the family the
father's love for his children compensates him for the care he extends
to them; while in the State the pleasure of commanding makes up for
the love which the political chief does not have for his people.^*
11. X oliticai (^
oncerns
In many ways, Max Weber's life and thought are expressions of political
events and concerns. His political stands, which must be understood in
terms of private contexts as well as public happenings, make up a theme
inextricably interwoven with Weber the man and the intellectual. For
he was a political man and a political intellectual. We have noticed how
the very young Weber felt that Cicero made a fool of himself in the
face of a threatened political conspiracy. To judge poHtic^ and rhetoric,
in terms of consequences and_to jTie.asuie_the_motives of men in terms of
the intended or unintended results of their actions remained a constant
principle of his political thinking. In this fundamental sense, Weber the
scholar always wrote from the point of view of the active politician.
His early political position was his father's NationaJ Liberalism. Un-
der eminent leaders, this party had moved towards Bismarck during the
'eighties. In this matter, they were compromised liberals: they wished
'neither to follow nor to fight, but to influence Bismarck.' And they
allowed Bismarck to fight the Kultur/{ampf against the Catholics and to
suppress socialist labor. With such policies being followed, and with the
several splits among the liberal and leftist camp, Bismarck could play
off these parties against one another.
At the age of 20, Weber was identified with the cause of National
Liberalism, but he was cautious not to commit himself definitely to any
specific party. He was watchfully interested in the political process as a
whole and was an eager student of the possible motives of competing
leaders. But he was no 'youthful enthusiast.' It was characteristic of this
detachment that when the National Liberals helped Bismarck to pro-
long the 'emergency law' against the socialists, Weber commented:
If one wants to justify this law one has to take the point of view, perhaps
not quite incorrect, that without this emergency law a considerable restric-
tion of many accomplishments of public life would be inevitable, namely, free-
dom of speech, assembly, and of association. After all, the Social Democrats,
32
POLITICAL CONCERNS 33
by their manner of agitation, were indeed going to compromise fundamental
institutions of public life. . . However, when I think of the matter quietly,
sometimes it seems to me as if equal rights for all might be preferable to
everything else, and in this case the thing to do is to muzzle everybody rather
than to put some in chains. The basic mistake, after all, seems to have been
the Danaer present of Bismarck's Caesarism, namely, the universal franchise
which was a pure murder of equal rights for all in the truest sense of the
word.^
Weber's evaluation of Bismarck, as indicated in this passage, was not
to change. He acknowledged and admired his political genius in relent-
less pursuit of policy of unifying Germany and in attaining for the newly
created state the position of a great power. However, Weber was far
from any uncritical surrender to Bismarck; he did not heroize him;
indeed, he had nothing but scorn for the essentially apolitical hero wor-
ship of Bismarck that spread through the middle classes of Germany.
Weber's, basic criticism of Bismarck was of his intolerance of independ--
ent-minded political leaders, that he surrounded himself with docile and
obedient bureaucrats. 'The horrible destruction of independent convic-
tions which Bismarck has caused among us is, of course, the main reason,
or at least one of the main reasons, for what is wrong with our condi-
tion. But, do we not bear at least the same guilt as he?' "
The^attainmcnt and preservation of intellectual liberty appears to have
been one of Weber's highest conscious values. He rejected, without
reservation, BismarcVs Knltur\a7npj, just as much as he rejected the
Prussian language-policy for Germanizing the Poles and irritating the
Alsatians. Yet he called the progressives 'sterile,' especially in their heads-
I-win-tails-you-lose budget figuring. 'One shivers to think that these
people would be called upon to take Bismarck's place.' After Kaiser
William II ascended to the throne and showed his tendency towards the
personal assumption of power, Weber looked to the future with profound
anxieties. 'These Boulangist, Bonapartist demonstrations are undesirable,
to say the least.' ^
The first traces of Weber's shift away from the National Liberalism —
which became more and more a creature of big business — and in the
direction of a more progressive 'social liberalism' appears in 1887, when
he was 23. At this time he seemed to feel that the state had an obligation
towards the weakest social stratum, the metropolitan proletariat, which
during the development of Berlin lived under the typical miserable con-
ditions of early capitalism. This feeling of social responsibility was, after
OA THE MAN AND HIS WORK
all, one of paternalism. Hence, Weber voted Conservative, though he did
not join the Conservative party.
His detailed studies of the Junker economy in East Elbian, Germany,
undertaken during the early 'nineties at the instigation of a reform
society, which included 'Professorial socialists,' were Weber's first eco-
nomic publications. They established his reputation as an expert in
agrarian problems. He was trying to get at the economic and social
reasons for the displacement of the German population in the east by
Polish-Russian settlers. He demonstrated that the real-estate and property
interests of Junker capitalism were responsible for the depopulation of
the German east, an area that at one time had been a densely populated
peasant land, intermixed with estates. By breaking down official census
statistics into small units, Weber showed that irresistible depopulation
forces went on wherever large entailed estates came into being. At the
same time, the agrarian capitalists imported Polish seasonal laborers,
who, by virtue of their low standards of living and exploitability, dis-
placed the German peasant population.
Insight into this process placed Weber in political opposition to Prussia's
ruling class and therewith in opposition to the class which, by virtue of a
sham constitutional setup of Prussia, dominated the rest of Germany.
His opposition to these landlords rested upon a belief that their interests
ran counter to the interests of the nation. 'We wish to forge small
peasants to the soil of the fatherland not by legal but by psychological
chains. I say it openly: We wish to exploit their land-hunger in order to
chain them to the homeland. And if we had to stamp a generation of
men into the soil in order to guarantee the future of Germany, we would
shoulder this responsibility.' *
In the early 'nineties, Weber argued against historical materialism by
playing up the inexhaustible complexity of causal pluralism. For example,
he felt, for many historical reasons, that the wages of farm hands did not
follow any economic law, least of all an 'iron one.' In his 1894 lecture at
Freiburg, he held that national and ethnic diflferences in the competitive
struggle for existence were more causally important than economic and
class situations. Later his political and intellectual relations with the
body of Marxist knowledge were to be quite different and much more
complex.
Weber's political mood when he was thirty years of age is revealed by
the following passage from his inaugural lecture at Freiburg:
POLITICAL CONCERNS 35
In the main, the fruits of all economic, social, and political endeavors of the
present will benefit not living but future generations. If our work can and
will have meaning, it can only attempt to provide for the future, that is,
for our successors. However, no economic policy is possible on the basis of
optimistic hopes for happiness. Lasciate ogni speranza [Man, if you enter
here, leave all hopes outside] stands written over the door to the unknown
future of human history. It is not a dream of peace and human happiness.
The question is not how men in the future will feel, but rather who they
will be. That is the question which concerns us when we think beyond the
graves of our own generation. And in truth, this question lies at the root of
every economic and political work. We do not strive for man's future well-
being; we are eager to breed in them those traits with which we link the
feeling that they constitute what is humanly great and noble in our na-
ture. . . In the last analysis, the processes of economic development are
struggles for power. Our ultimate yardstick of values is 'reasons of state,' and
this is also the yardstick for our economic reflections. . .^
Thus, in the middle 'nineties, Weber was an imperialist, defending
the power-interest of the national state as the ultimate value and using
the vocabulary of social Darwinism. He warned that economic power
and the call for political leadership of the nation did not always coincide.
He called himself an 'economic nationalist,' measuring the various classes
with the yardstick of the state's political interests. The acquisition of
colonies, the saber-rattling speeches of the Kaiser, and the imperial
grandeur — for these Weber had nothing but the disdain of the expert
who knew that they were hopeless nonsense.
It is dangerous and, in the long run, irreconcilable with the Interest of the
nation if an economically sinking class holds political power in its hands.
It is still more dangerous if those classes to whom economic power and
therewith the claim for political authority is shifting are politically immature
in their leadership of the state. Both are threatening Gerrpr^y'-at this time
and, in truth, they provide the keys to the present danger of our situation.^
What was this 'dangerous situation' ."^ German foreign policy was being
reoriented: Bismarck's treaty with Russia was not renewed, the oppor-
tunity for an alliance with Great Britain was not seized, and a policy o£
planless drifting resulted. It was covered up by braggadocio, Kaiser-bluff,
and led to the political isolation of Germany. The leading strata of this
nation would not orient it towards the West or towards the East. Ger-
man policies were thus erratically directed against everybody and a series
of defeats was cloaked in boastfulness.
36 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
It has been cogently argued that this fatal situation was the result
of compromise between Western industrialism and Junker agrarianism.
The National Liberals, of course, were the imperialists, the Pan-German-
ists, the Anglophobes; their pride was hurt and they wanted 'to show the
British' that Germans, too, could build ships. They pushed the navy
program, which Tirpitz finally put over in one of the most adroit propa-
ganda campaigns of modern history." They won the Junkers' co-operation
for this course by granting them protectionist tariffs in 1902 against the
imports of grain from the United States and Russia. The Junkers as such
did not care for the graessliche Flotte, and, landlubbers as they were,
they did not think much of over-seas empire, with its commerce and
colonies. They remained provincial, they felt politically close to Russian
Czarism, and they were suspicious of the interests of Western industry
in naval construction, which masqueraded as the National Task.
Both Junkers and industrialists, however, feared the mass organizations
of the ascending Social Democrats, the clamor for democracy, and the
attacks against the Prussian system of class suffrage. The compromise of
the respective class interests of industrial National Liberals and agrarian
Junker Conservatives was thus directed against the democratic and
socialist Labor party. And their compromise led to the discarding of
any foreign policy involving alliances with effective naval or military
partners.
The political and economic compromises of the East and West led to
the social fusion of Junkerdom with the new industrial stratum. It was
symptomatic of these changes that Bertha Krupp, Alfred Krupp's only
heir, married the nobleman, von Bohlen, an imperial career diplomat;
and the Kaiser attended the wedding. The Crown also lost prestige
through the scandalous exposures of the political police in the Tausch
trial, the morally unsavory atmosphere of court circles exposed by Maxi-
milian Harden in his crusade against Prince Eulenburg, the series of
humiliations of the Kaiser in the foreign field, the more intense war
scares, and the general armament and naval race. These were some of the
events and trends that made Max Weber feel as if he were riding on 'an
express train moving towards an abyss and not feeling certain whether
the next switch has been set right.'
Weber was friendly with a 'radical' parson, Naumann, who flirted
with socialist ideas and who under Weber's influence turned nationalist.
In 1894, Parson Naumann founded a 'little magazine' to which Weber
contributed.^ For a few years, Weber was in contact with the attempts
POLITICAL CONCERNS 37
of these parsons, teachers, civil servants, artisans, and a few workers — a
typical petty bourgeois circle — to organize a little party. They wished to
create national unity by spreading a sense of social responsibility among
bourgeois classes and training socialist labor for nationalism." Max
Weber's mother and Mrs. Baumgarten forwarded Naumann's campaign
for a seat in the Reichstag, Although he did not lose a friendly contact,
Weber soon impatiently broke his active connection with this group.
In 1897, Weber made a campaign speech in the Saar in the district of
Baron von Stumm, the coal magnate, who was pressing for legislation to
punish trade-union leaders in case of strikes. Although he spoke in favor
of industrial capitalism, which he felt was indispensable for national
power, he also believed strongly in 'individual liberty.' He had been a
member of the Pan-Germanic League, but he broke with it in 1899
'in order to gain my freedom' and because 'my voice does not count
in its policy.' ^°
In 1903, after the worst of his psychic collapses, he cut loose from
and attacked the conservative romanticism behind which the material
and political class interests of dynasty and Junkers were hidden. This was
just before he left for America. After returning to Germany in 1905, his
political interests were aroused by the first Russian revolution of 190^-
Since he took the trouble to learn Russian, he was able to follow events in
several Russian dailies. He was also in frequent conversations with the
Russian political scientist, T. Kistiakovski — one of the intellectual leaders
of leftist bourgeois liberalism in Russia — who worked for the revolution.
The result of these studies was two exemplary essays in political sociology,
which Weber published as special issues of the Archiv. By a sociological
analysis of classes and parties in Russia, Weber — among other trains of
thought — indicated that should the Czar fall, after a European war, and
the extreme left come to power in another revolution, an unheard-of
bureaucratization of the entire social structure of Russia might well result.
Weber's intellectual production had begun again shortly after his re-
turn from America in 1904. This was a time of political crisis for Ger-
rnany, brought about in part by the speeches of the Kaiser and his
excursions to Africa. By 1906 the entente cordial was shaping, and Ger-
many's diplomatic isolation and decline from Bismarckian heights were
obvious. The symbol of the nation, the Kaiser, had become the target of
international ridicule. Weber saw the root of these difficulties in a politi-
cal structure that prevented the efficient selection of responsible political
leaders. He was grieved that Germany's sham constitutionalism made
o8 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
political careers unattractive to talented and eflFective men, who preferred
to enter business or science.
From such views as these, Weber moved slowly towards a 'democratic'
stand, though of a somewhat unique and complex nature. He did not
believe in democracy as an intrinsically valuable body of ideas: 'natural
law,' 'the equality of men,' their intrinsic claim to 'equal rights.' He saw
democratic institutions and ideas pragmatically; not in terms of their
'inner worth' but in terms of their consequences in the selection of effi-
cient political leaders. And he felt that in modern society such leaders
must be able to build up and control a large, well-disciplined machine,
in the American sense. The choice was between a leaderless democracy
or a democracy run by the leaders of large-party bureaucracies.
For Weber, the universal franchise, the struggle for votes, and the free-
dom of organization had no value unless they resulted in powerful
political leaders willing to assume responsibility rather than evade it
and cover up their deeds behind court cliques and imperial bureaucrats
who happened to have the Kaiser's favor.
Before Weber's critical examination, no single German stratum seemed
to be satisfactory for the job at hand. Accordingly, he raised a critical
voice, first of all against the head of the nation, the Kaiser, whom he
scathingly derided as a dilettante covering behind divine right of kings.
The structure of German party life seemed hopeless as a check on the
uncontrolled power of a politically docile but technically perfected bureau-
cratic machine. He pierced the radical phrases of the Social Democrats as
the hysterical howling of powerless party journalists drilling the masses
for an intellectual goosestep, thus making them more amenable to manip-
ulation by the bureaucracy. At the same time, the Utopian comfort
contained in revisionist Marxism's automatic drift into paradise appeared
to substitute a harmless complacency for righteous indignation. And he
thought that the Social Democrats' refusal to make any compromises
with bourgeois parties and assume cabinet responsibilities was one of the
factors blocking the introduction of constitutional government. Later
political analyses made by Weber sprang from this desperate search for a
stratum that would measure up to the political tasks of leadership in an
era of imperialist rivalry.
In the fall of 191 1, a militarist-minded official of a German university
made a speech in which he chastised pacifist elements as 'silly' and spoke
of the 'sentimentality for peace.' A general attending the beer festival
that followed the speech saw fit to dub pacifists as 'men who wear trou-
J
POLITICAL CONCERNS 39
sers but have nothing in them and wish to make poHtical eunuchs out
o£ the people.' ^^ When several professors of Freiburg defended these
speeches against press attacks, Weber wrote a memorandum against what
appeared to him as 'small-town stuff.' He warned that if Germany should
have to go to war, 'her crowned dilettante' (the Kaiser) would interfere
with the leadership of the army and ruin everything. It is interesting that
Weber, a confirmed nationalist believing in force as the last argument of
any policy, nevertheless submitted the following paragraph: 'To char-
acterize a criticism of definite political ideals, no matter how high-minded,
as an undermining of moral forces must call forth justified protests. In
"ethics" the pacifists are undoubtedly our "betters." . . Policy making is
not a moral trade, nor can it ever be.' ^" In spite of this appreciation of
the ethical sincerity of such pacifists as Tolstoy^ we must recall Weber's
own desire for personal participation in the war.
During the war, he was against the annexation of Belgium, but^ this
is not to say that Weber had no imperialist aspirations. He clamored for
'military bases' as far flung as Warsaw and to the north of there. And |
he wished the German army to occupy Liege and Namur for twenty *
years.
In October 1915 he wrote: 'Every victory brings us further from peace.
This is the uniqueness of the situation.' He was beyond himself when
Austria allowed Italy to break away from her. 'The entire statesmanship
of the last twenty-five years is collapsing, and it is very poor satisfaction
always to have said it. The war can now last forever.' He wrote a memo-
randum addressed to the Government and to members of the German
Parliament, but it remained on his own desk. In it are such statements
as: 'It is against German interests to force a peace of which the main re-
sult would be that the heel of the German boot in Europe stands upon
everyone's toes/^^ He saw that sheer prolongation of the war would
bring world industrial supremacy to America. He was alarmed about the
imperialism, which ran rampant through heavy industry and the princely
houses. Desperately he wrote: 'I will learn Polish and then seek to make
contacts with the Poles.' He asked the under-secretary of state for access
to the official archives on Poland and to be allowed to contact Polish in-
dustrialists. Although he used a member of the Catholic Center party as
a front, he was of course refused. By March 1916, Weber was disgusted
with 'the whole Berlin atmosphere, in which all talented people are in-
capacitated by the resentful stupiditv which prevails in the Reich offices.' "
Weber believed that the First World War was a result of a constella-
AO THE MAN AND HIS WORK
tion of economic and political rivalries of nations. In so far as elements
of 'guilt' might enter the picture, he thought that Germany was guilty
of romantic and inefficient management of her affairs. He decried the
aspirations of the war-party as idiotic and, from the very beginning, felt
that it could only lead to disaster. He was particularly enraged by
Tirpitz's naval policy, the sinking of the Lusitania, and the reliance
upon the weapon of the submarine. He anticipated America's entrance
into the war, and in February 1916 stated the following results of this
development :
First, that half of our merchant marine, one-quarter in American and one-
quarter in Italian harbors (!), will be confiscated and used against us; thus
at once the number of British ships will be increased — a matter which these
asses [of the German navy] do not calculate. Second, we shall have 500,000
American sportsmen as volunteers, brilliandy equipped, against our tired
troops, a matter which these asses do not believe. Third, forty billion in cash
will be available to our enemies. Fourth, three more years of war; thus,
certain ruin. Fifth, Rumania, Greece, etc. against us. And all this in order
that Herr von Tirpitz may show what he can do! Never has anything so
stupid been thought of.^^
In October 1916, Weber spoke in a political meeting of progressive
liberals on Germany among the Great Powers of Europe. In this speech
he judged policy with the yardstick of international result: the geographic
position of Germany in the midst of powerful neighbors should make
for a policy of sober alliances rather than a policy of boastful vanity and
conquest. In Weber's view, Russia was 'the main threat.' Accordingly, he
wished an understanding with England. Events in Eastern Europe
brought world-historical decisions to the fore, compared to which changes
in Western Europe appeared trivial. The ultimate cause of the war was
Germany]s late development as an industrial power-state. 'And why have
we become a nation organized into a power state.''' he asked.
Not for vanity, but for the sake of our responsibility to world history. The
Danes, Swiss, Norwegians, and Dutch will not be held responsible by future
generations, and especially not by our own descendants, for allowing, without
a fight, world power to be partitioned between the decrees of Russian officials
on the one hand and the conventions of Anglo-Saxon 'society' — perhaps with
a dash of Latin raison thrown in — on the other. The division of world power
ultimately means the control of the nature of future culture. Future genera-
tions will hold us responsible in these matters, and rightly so, for we are a
nation of seventy and not seven millions.^"
POLITICAL CONCERNS 4I
On 3 November 1918, the sailors at Kiel mutinied. The next day,
Weber spoke in Munich on Germany's reconstruction. He was heckled
by revolutionary intellectuals, among them the Russian Bolshevist Levien,
as well as by veterans in the audience. Shortly afterwards a revolutionary
government of workers and soldiers' councils was set up.
Max Weber was against those professors who at the moment of col-
lapse placed the blame upon the German home front by rationalizing the
collapse as 'a stab in the back,' Yet he was also against 'the revolution,'
which he called 'this bloody carnival' and which he felt could only secure
worse peace terms than might otherwise have been possible. At the same
time, he realized that the revolution could not lead to lasting socialistic
institutions.
His wife has stated that his sympathy with the struggle of the prole-
tariat for a human and dignified existence had for decades been so great
that he often pondered whether or not he should join their ranks as a
party member — but always with negative conclusions. His reasoning,
according to his wife, 'was that one could be an honest socialist, just
like a Christian, only if one was ready to share the way of life of the
unpropertied, and in any case, only if one was ready to forego a cultured
existence based upon their work. Since his disease, this was impossible
for Weber. His scholarship simply depended upon capital rent. Further-
more, he remained personally an "individualist." '
He accompanied the German peace delegation to Versailles as an ex-
pert. He suggested that 'the designated war criminals,' Ludendorff,
Tirpitz, Capelle, Bethman, should voluntarily offer their heads to the
enemy; only then, he thought, the German officer corps could again rise
to glory. He wrote LudendorfT a letter to this effect, but Ludendorfl
curtly refused. Weber then arranged to meet Ludendorfl personally and
disputed with him for several hours. He reproached him with the politi-
cal mistakes committed by the general staff and was in turn reproached
by LudendorfT for the sins of the revolution and the new regime. Weber
asked Ludendorff to offer his head to the enemy.
ludendorff: How can you expect me to do anything of the sort?
weber: The honor of the nation can only be saved if you give yourself up.
ludendorff: The nation can go jump in the lake. Such ingratitude!
weber: Nevertheless, you ought to render this last service.
ludendorff: I hope to be able to render more important services to the nation.
weber: In that case, your remark is not meant so seriously. For the rest,
^2 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
it is not only a matter of the German people but a matter of restoring
the honor of the officer corps and of the army.
ludendorff: Why don't you go and see Hindenburg? After all he was the
General Field Marshal.
WEBER : Hindenburg is seventy years of age, and besides, every child knows
that at the time you were Number One in Germany.
ludendorff: JThank goodness.
The conversation soon drifted into politics, LudendorfiF blaming Weber
and the Frankjurter Zeitung for the 'democracy.'
weber: Do you believe that I think this swinish condition which we have
at present is democracy.?
ludendorff: If you talk that way, maybe we can reach an agreement.
weber: But the preceding swinish condition was not a monarchy either.
ludendorff: Then, what do you mean by democracy?
t weber: In a democracy the people choose a leader in whom they trust. Then
i the chosen leader says, 'Now shut up and obey me.' People and party
I are then no longer free to interfere in his business.
ludendorff: I could like such democracy.
weber: Later the people can sit in judgment. If the leader has made mistakes
— ^to the gallows with him!
Weber was profoundly disappointed in Ludendorflf's human stature.
'Perhaps,' he wrote, 'it is better for Germany that he does not give
himself up. His personal impression would be unfavorable. The enemy
would again find that the sacrifices of a war which put this type out of
commission were worth their while. I now understand why the world
defends itself against the attempts of men like him to place their heel
upon the necks of others. If he should again mingle in politics, one will
have to fight him remorselessly.' ^^
Max Weber thus looked upon German party Ufe with disdain. It struck
him as petty and as suffocating in the atmosphere of guild squabbles. In
this respect, he shared the attitude of Carl Jentsch.^®
Having absorbed the Marxist criticism of 'bourgeois democracy,'
Weber turned away from conservatism, Pan-Germanism, and monarchi-
cal loyalties. He did so not because he had learned to believe in the in-
trinsic value of democratic constitutional government as a 'government
of the people, for the people, and by the people,' but because he believed
constitutional democracy was the only solution for Germany's problems
at home and abroad. In April 1917, he wrote:
POLITICAL CONCERNS 43
I would not fire a single shot and I would not buy a penny war bond if
this war were anything but a national war; if it concerned the form of the
state and possibly was a war for retaining this incapable monarchy and this
apolitical bureaucracy, I don't give a damn for the form of the State, if only
politicians were to rule the country and not such vain simpletons as Wil-
liam II and his like. . . For me constitutions are techniques just like any
other machines. I would be just as ready to strike against parliament and for
the monarch if he were a politician or if he gave promise of becoming one.^^
Weber agitated for constitutional democracy because he hoped the
Reichstag might become a balancing factor against the overwhelming
weight of Prussian, and therewith German, bureaucracy and its mental-
ity. A parliamentary competition of parties should bring political leaders
of perspective and of passionate will to power. They should possess the
technical know-how required for subduing the bureaucracy to their will.
They should steer the bureaucracy, which for Weber made sense only as
a technical means and never as a policy-making and politically responsible
agency. In the best case, Weber hoped for the rise of charismatic leaders,
though he felt the drift towards ever-denser and indestructible institu-
tions in modern society narrowed the opportunity for this 'purely per-
sonal element' to be decisive in the social structure.
It is, of course, quite vain to speculate whether Weber with his
Machiavellian attitude might ever have turned Nazi. To be sure, his
philosophy of charisma — his skepticism and his pragmatic view of demo-
cratic sentiment — might have given him such affinities. But his human-
ism, his love for the underdog, his hatred of sham and lies, and his un-
ceasing campaign against racism and anti-Semitic demagoguery would
have made him at least as sharp a 'critic,' if not a sharper one, of Hitler
than his brother Alfred has been. " ^~
Weber was far from following Troeltsch, who felt it necessary to
speak of the 'most basic dispositions and volitional tendencies' ultimately
underlying the social institutions, and ideological structures of history:
'We have no words for this and, in this case, speak of races, of plastic,
historical forces, or of primeval impulses.' ^^ Weber was far from this
quest for a metaphysical anchorage in 'blind nature.' One may sum up
Weber's dispersed and repeated disclaimers of racial arguments in the
words of John Stuart Mill: 'Of all vulgar modes of escaping from the
consideration of the effect of social and moral influences on the human
mind, the most vulgar is that of attributing the diversities of conduct and
character to inherent natural differences.'^^
4^ THE MAN AND HIS WORK
Weber, one might say, was constitutionally incapable of making 'the
intellectual sacrifice' that he believed all 'faith' demands. The nightmare
of faith represented by modern fascism would hardly have intrigued as
passionate a servant of rational social science as Max Weber. The basic
style of thought that informs his work is Western positivism, a heritage
of the enlightenment. The basic volitional tendency of his thought is
not, with the Ranke school, artistically to construct great tableaux of
periods each of which is 'equally near to God,' but to fashion intel-
lectual tools that would yield hindsights serviceable to foresights: savoir
pottr prevoir, prevoir pour pouvoir — this impulse of Comte's positive
philosophy was basic to Weber's outlook. Even though he stemmed from
the 'historical school' he had no use for any edifying attitude towards
history and its uniqueness. By-passing the hostility of historians, he po-
litely suggested an enquiry into 'lawful regularities' as an 'auxiliary'
science to history. He then proceeded to write social history in the grand
manner.
Urbanism, legal history, economics, music, world religions — there is
hardly a field which he left untouched. He thus continued the tradition
of encyclopedic scholarship of Wundt and Ratzel, of Roscher and
Schmoller.
He worked through masses of data not in order to seek in the con-
templation of man's historical estate a quietistic refuge for a homeless
religious need, comparable to the Rousseauistic sentiment of nature, but
rather in order to snatch from comparative enquiries a set of rules which
would serve him in his search for political orientation in the contempo-
rary world. That knowledge is somehow power — that is the impulse
behind this quest of a powerless man for knowledge. And it is in view
of this political concern that one may understand his intellectual orienta-
tions.
111. Intellectual Orientations
The intellectual situation in Germany during Weber's lifetime was
singularly unfavorable for the development of academic sociology. His-
toriography was largely dominated by the traditions of Hegel and Ranke,
and conservative thinking was extremely potent in checking any de-
velopment of theory in the social sciences. This was especially the case in
economics. For in this field, the historical school discouraged systematic
theory by opposing to it a massive treasure of historical detail, legal fact,
and institutional description.
Liberalism, on the other hand, had been developed by an intelligentsia
that was independent o£~any entrepreneurial middle class. Compared
with the Western countries, from which the models of thought for
German liberalism had been derived, everything in Germany seemed
topsy-turvy. The agrarian Junkers and their following clamored for
Adam Smith and free trade, that is, for free grain exports to England
rather than sales to the emerging industrial cities of Germany. The liberal
Friedrich List advocated protective tariffs. Bismarck and the German \
princes, rather than the middle classes, had geared the German people i
into a national state.
The liberal academic intelligentsia had scarcely recovered from the
shock of 1848 and the reaction to it, when Lassalle inaugurated a Socialist
party that soon turned Marxist and attracted a brilliant group of journal-
ists and organizers, historians and sociologists. These men took pride
in their detachment from national loyalties. And, in Germany, Marxism
was able to establish a tradition that tried to draw into its orbit the social
and political history of all ages, the interpretation of literature and phi-
losophy, as well as the ♦development of social and economic theory.
In 1848 the liberals bad been afraid of the bearded, itinerant journey-
men; under Bismarck they were afraid of Bebel and Liebknecht. Even
in 1878 the doctrinaire liberal Eugen Richter advised his followers to
vote for the Conservative rather than for the Social Democratic candi-
45
46 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
date, should their choice be Hmited to these two.^ And ten years later,
when Ferdinand Tonnies published his Gemeinschaft und Gesellschaft,
a work rightly considered basic for modern German sociology, he made
himself a hopeless outsider from 'respectable' society. For sociology
smacked of socialism. Even so discerning a mind as Ludwig Bamberger
spoke of the 'internal affinity of militarism and socialism.' ^ Thus the in-
tellectual traditions of Germany were channeled into conservative, liberal,
and socialist ways of thought.
German political parties, having no opportunity to wield power, re-
mained doctrinaire parties of principled world views, each rather strictly
oriented towards special classes and status groups. Agrarian conservatives
were in coalition with Lutheran orthodoxy, urban merchants and bankers
with liberal professional men, socialist wage workers with a low-browed
intelligentsia who elaborated high-browed Marxism. The get-rich-quick
atmosphere of the new industrialism, the intoxication of the parvenu
with power after 1870, the Philistinism of the socially arriving burghers
working their ways into dueling corps, baronial estates, and the officer
corps — all this bred political apathy and fear of the upthrust of labor.
And it led to a wide political accommodation to the power of the
Junker.
Within this context of conflicting classes, parties, and intellectual cur-
rents. Max Weber worked out his intellectual orientations. He aimed
at the comprehensiveness of a common ground. And he did so in spite
of the intellectual departmentalization of sharply opposed world views.
By reflecting upon some of his analytic conceptions and broad historical
views, we may be able to indicate how conservative, liberal, and socialist
elements of thought were assimilated, transformed, and integrated into
the complex pattern of his work. As a liberal, fighting against both con-
servative and Marxist thought. Max Weber opened himself to certain in-
fluences from each of his opponents.
i: Marx and Weber
Upon taking over the editorship of the Archiv Fitr Sozialwissenschajt
und Sozialpolitif{, Weber proposed systematically to devote attention to
the questions the Marxists had raised. Much of Weber's own work is of
course informed by a skilful application of Marx's historical method.
Weber, however, used this method as a 'heuristic principle.' As a view
of world history, Marxism seemed to him an untenable monocausal the-
INTELLECTUAL ORIENTATIONS 47
ory and thus prejudicial to an adequate reconstruction of social and his-
torical connections. He felt that Marx as an economist had made the
same mistake that, during Weber's days, anthropology was making:
raising a segmental perspective to paramount importance and reducing
the multiplicity of causal factors to a single-factor theorem.
Weber does not squarely oppose historical materialism as altogether
wrong; he merely takes exception to its claim of establishing a single
and universal causal sequence. Apart from whether or not he 'under-
stood' dialectical thought in his reduction of it to a causal proposition,
the approach did prove eminently fruitful.
Part of Weber's own work may thus be seen as an attempt to 'round
out' Marx's economic materialism by a political and mihtary materialism.
The Weberian approach to political structures closely parallels the Marx-
ian approach to economic structures. Marx constructed economic periods
and located major economic classes in them; he related the several social
and political factors to the means of production. In political matters,
Weber looks for the disposition over weapons and over means of admin-
istration.
Feudalism, for example, is characterized by Weber in terms of pri-
vate property of the means of military violence (self-equipped armies)
and in the corporate appropriation of the means of administration. The
'ruler' could not monopolize administration and warfare because he had
to delegate the implements required for such a monopoly to the several
privileged groupings. In time, these latter become 'owners' in their own
right. This attention to the control of the material means of political
power is as crucial for grasping the types of political structure as is
attention to the means of production in the case of Marx for grasping
economic structures.*
Whereas Marx is less careful in distinguishing between economic
power and political power, Weber, as a liberal, is eager to keep these
spheres clearly distinct. Thus, his criticism of most Marxist contributions
is that they fail soberly to distinguish between what is strictly 'economic,'
what is 'economically determined,' and what is merely 'economically
relevant.' Pilgrimages to Rome are certainly relevant for the money
market, but that does not make them economic enterprises. The im-
port of religious or of poHtical ideas for economic institutions does not
* See in this volume: 'Politics as a Vocation,' 'Bureaucracy,' and 'The Social Psychology
of World Religions.'
48 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
thereby transform these ideas into economic factors: the question con-
cerns their 'economic relevance.'
Having focused upon the struggle for the means of poHtical rule,
Weber sees European political history since the feudal period' as an in-
tricate parade of rulers, each attempting to appropriate the financial and
military means that in feudal society were relatively dispersed. In fact,
Weber formulates the very concept of the 'state' in terms of a 'monopoly'
of the use of legitimate force over a given territory. The territorial aspect
enters into the conception of the state in that Weber distinguishes coastal
and inland states, great river states, and states of the plains. The geo-
graphical factor also seems to have a dispositional bearing in that the
coastal, and hence maritime, state offers opportunities for city democracy,
overseas empire; whereas the state of the plains — for example, Russia and
the United States — seems to favor schematization and bureaucracy, al-
though of course this tendency is not without exceptions.
With Marx, Weber shares an attempt to bring 'ideological' phenomena
into some correlation with the 'material' interests of the economic and
political orders. Weber has a keen eye for 'rationalizations,' that is, for
'fictitious superstructures,' and for incongruities between the verbal as-
sertion and the actual intention. He fought imperial and bureaucratic
bombast, and especially the phrases of the Pan-Germanists and/or revo-
lutionary 'literati,' with a wrath comparable to Marx's campaign against
Victorian cant.
The debunking technique by which ideological assertions are revealed
as false cloaks for less respectable interests is obvious in Weber's attack
upon the revolutionary left of 1918. Weber expressly stated at this time
that Marxism is not a carriage, which one may arrest at will: he wished
to extend the debunking of ideologies to include the 'proletarian interest,'
and he attempted to narrow down this interest to the interests of the
^literati, politicians, and revolutionary guardsmen in 'the spoils of vic-
tory.' His debunking of socialist aspirations is also obvious in his reflec-
tions on imperialism. Here he obviously accepts national units as histori-
cal ultimates that can never be integrated into more comprehensive and
harmonious wholes. At best there will be strong socialist nation-states
energetically exploiting weaker states. The concept of the nation and of
national interest is thus the limit of Weber's political outlook and at the
same time constitutes his ultimate value. Yet it is characteristic of his
restless analysis that he breaks down 'national sentiment' into a com-
posite of various communal sentiments and attitudes.
INTELLECTUAL ORIENTATIONS 49
In addition to this attention to 'interests' and 'ideologies,' Weber's
sociology is related to Marx's thought in the common attempt to grasp
the interrelations on all institutional orders making up a social structure.
In Weber's work, military and religious, political and juridical institu-
tional systems are functionally related to the economic order in a variety
of ways. Yet, the political judgments and evaluations involved differ
entirely from those of Marx. For Marx, the modern economy is basically
irrational; this irrationality of capitalism results from a contradiction
between the rational technological advances of the productive forces
and the fetters of private property, private profit, and unmanaged market
competition. The system is characterized by an 'anarchy of production.'.
For Weber, on the other hand, modern capitali^mis not 'irrational';
indeed, its institutions appear to him as the very embodiment of ration-
ality. As a type of bureaucracy, the large corporation is rivaled only by
the state bureaucracy in promoting rational efficiency, continuity of oper-
ation, speed, precision, and calculation of results. And all this goes on
within institutions that are rationally managed, and in which combined
and specialized functions occupy the center of attention. The whole
structure is dynamic, and by its anonymity compels modern man to be-
come a specialized expert, a 'professional' man qualified for the accom-
plishment of a special career within pre-scheduled channels. Man is thus
prepared for his absorption in the clattering process of the bureaucratic
machinery.
The concept of rational bureaucracy is played off against the Marxist
concept of the class struggle. As is the case with 'economic materialism,'
so with 'class struggle': Weber does not deny class struggles and their
part in history, but he does not see them as the central dynamic. Nor
does he deny the possibility of a socialization of the means of produc-
tion. He merely relegates this demand to a far distant future and dis-
putes any hope of 'socialism for our time.' He does not see anything
attractive in socialism. In his eyes, socialism would merely complete in
the economic order what had already happened in the sphere of political
means. The feudal estates had been expropriated of their political means
and had been displaced by the salaried officialdom of the modern bureau-
cratic state. The state had 'nationalized' the possession of arms and of i/
administrative means. Socialization of the means of production would
merely subject an as yet relatively autonomous economic life to the
bureaucratic management of the state. The state would indeed become 7'
total, and Weber, hating bureaucracy as a shackle upon the liberal indi-
50 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
vidual, felt that socialism would thus lead to a further serfdom. Tor the
time being,' he wrote, 'the dictatorship of the official and not that of
the worker is on the march.' ^
Weber thus saw himself as holding paradoxical opinions. He could
not but recognize the inevitability of bureaucratic management in public
administration, in large capitalist enterprises, and in politically efficient
party machines. During the war he personally scolded the stupidity of
the Berlin bureaucrats, yet in his classic account of bureaucracy he is
very far from John Stuart Mill's verdict against 'pedantocracy.' On the
contrary, for Weber nothing is more efficient and more precise than
bureaucratic management. Again in his pride in bureaucracy, 'in spite
of all,' one may discern an attitude comparable to Marx's admiration for
the achievements of bourgeois capitalism in wiping out feudal survivals,
the 'idiocy' of rural life, and various spooks of the mind.
Marx's emphasis upon the wage worker as being 'separated' from the
means of production becomes, in Weber's perspective, merely one special
case of a universal trend. The modern soldier is equally 'separated' from
the means of violence; the scientist from the means of enquiry, and the
civil servant from the means of administration. Weber thus tries to
relativize Marx's work by placing it into a more generalized context and
showing that Marx's conclusions rest upon observations drawn from a
dramatized 'special case,' which is better seen as one case in a broad series
of similar cases. The series as a whole exemplifies the comprehensive
underlying trend of bureaucratization. Socialist class struggles are merely
a vehicle implementing this trend.
Weber thus identifies bureaucracy with rationality, and the process
of rationalization with mechanism, depersonalization, and oppressive
routine. Rationality, in this context, is seen as adverse to personal free-
dom. Accordingly, Weber is a nostalgic liberal, feeling himself on the
defensive. He deplores the type of man that the mechanization and the
routine of bureaucracy selects and forms. The narrowed professional,
publicly certified and examined, and ready for tenure and career. His
craving for security is balanced by his moderate ambitions and he is re-
warded by the honor of official status. This type of man Weber deplored
as a petty routine creature, lacking in heroism, human spontaneity, and
inventiveness : 'The Puritan willed to be the vocational man that we have
to be.'
INTELLECTUAL ORIENTATIONS
2: Bureaucracy and Charisma: A Philosophy of History
The principle of rationalization is the most general element in Weber's
philosophy of historyJFor the rise and fall of institutional structures, the
ups and downs of classes, parties, and rulers implement the general
drift of secular rationalization. In thinking of the change of human atti-
tudes and mentalities that this process occasions, Weber liked to quote
Friedrich Schiller's phrase, the 'disenchantment of the world.' The extent
and direction of 'rationalization' is thus measured negatively in terms
of the degree to which magical elements of thought are displaced, or
positively by the extent to which ideas gain in systematic coherence and
naturalistic consistency.
The urge towards such a comprehensive and meaningful interpreta-
tion of the universe is ascribed to groups of intellectuals, to religious
prophets and teachers, to sages and philosophers, to jurists and experi-
mental artists, and finally, to the empirical scientist. 'Rationalization,'
socially and historically differentiated, thus comes to have a variety of
meanings. In this connection Weber makes a masterful contribution to
what has come to be known as the ^sociology of knowledge.' *
Weber's view of 'disenchantment' embodies an element of liberalism
and of the enlightenment philosophy that construed man's history as a
unilinear 'progress' towards moral perfection (sublimation), or towards
cumulative technological rationalization. Yet his skeptical aversion to any
'pHiIos6phic~af~eIement in empirical science precluded any explicit con-
structions of historical time in terms of 'cycles' or 'unilinear' evolution.
'Thus far the continuum of European culture development has known
neither completed cyclical movements nor an unambiguously oriented
"unilinear development." ' * We nevertheless feel justified in holding
that a unilinear construction is clearly implied in Weber's idea of the
bureaucratic trend. Even so 'inward' and apparently subjective an area
of experience as that of music lends itself to a sociological treatment
under Weber's concept of 'rationalization.' The fixation of clang pat-
terns, by a more concise notation and the establishment of the well-
tempered scale; 'harmonious' tonal music and the standardization of the
quartet of wood winds and string instruments as the core of the sym-
phony orchestra. These are seen as progressive 'rationalizations.' The
* We have included one chapter from Weber's study of China for the sake of acquaint-
ing the reader with this aspect of his work.
X
52 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
musical systems of Asia, of preliterate Indian tribes, of Antiquity, and
of the Middle East are compared in regard to their scope and degree
of 'rationalization,' The same comparative focus is of course used in the
account of religious systems, as may be seen in the typological sketch
contained in 'The Social Psychology of World Religions.'
This process of rationalization is punctured, however, by certain dis-
continuities of history. Hardened institutional fabrics may thus disinte-
grate and routine forms of life prove insufficient for mastering a growing
state of tension, stress, or suffering. It is in such crises that Weber intro-
duces a balancing conception for bureaucracy: the concept of 'charisma.'
Weber borrowed this concept from Rudolf Sohm, the Strassburg
church historian and jurist. Charisma, meaning literally 'gift of grace,'
is used by Weber to characterize self-appointed leaders who are fol-
lowed by those who are in distress and who need to follow the leader
because they believe him to be extraordmarily qualified. The founders
of world religions and the prophets as well as military and political
heroes are the archetypes of the charismatic leader. Miracles and revela-
tions, heroic feats of valor and baffling success are characteristic marks of
their stature. Failure is their ruin.
Although Weber is aware of the fact that social dynamics result from
many social forces, he nevertheless places great emphasis upon the rise
of charismatic leaders. Their movements are enthusiastic, and in such
extraordinary enthusiasms class and status barriers sometimes give way
to fraternization and exuberant community sentiments.^ Charismatic
heroes and prophets are thus viewed as truly revolutionary forces in
history.®
Bureaucracy and other institutions, especially those of the household,
/are seen as routines of workaday life; charisma is opposed to all institu-
tional routines, those of tradition and those subject to rational manage-
ment. This holds for the economic order: Weber characterizes conquista-
dores and robber barons as charismatic figures. When used in a strictly
technical manner, the concept of charisma is free of all evaluations. Stefan
George as well as Jeremiah, Napoleon as well as Jesus Christ, a raving
berserk warrior of Arabia as well as the founder of Mormonism — all these
are typified as charismatic leaders, for they have in common the fact that
</ people obey them because of faith in their personally extraordinary quali-
ties.
A genuinely charismatic situation is direct and inter-personal. In the
contrast of the everyday life of institutions with the personalized and
INTELLECTUAL ORIENTATIONS 53
spontaneous nature of charismatic leadership, one may readily discern
the heritage of liberalism that has always confronted similar dichotomies:
mass versus personality, the 'routine' versus the 'creative' entrepreneur, the
conventions of ordinary people versus the inner freedom of the pioneer-
ing and exceptional man, institutional rules versus the spontaneous indi-
vidual, the drudgery and boredom of ordinary existence versus the
imaginative flight of the genius. In spite of the careful nominalism of
his method, Weber's conception of the charismatic leader is a continua-
tion of a 'philosophy of history' which, after Carlyle's Heroes and Hero
Worship, influenced a great deal of nineteenth-century history writing.
In such an emphasis, the monumentalized individual becomes the sover-
eign of history.
Weber's conception of the charismatic leader is in continuity with the
concept of 'genius' as it was applied since the Renaissance to artistic and
intellectual leaders. Within the confines of 'moral' history, W. E. H.
Lecky broadened the conception in such a way as to apply it to leaders
of human conduct rather than merely to creators of symbols. Not only
men^of ideasJbuLJdeal men thus came into focus, as the following pas-
sage indicatGfrfp, v-
There arise from time to time men who bear to the moral condition of
their age much the same relations as men of genius bear to its intellectual
condition. They anticipate the moral standard di a later age, cast abroad con-
ceptions of disinterested virtue, of philanthropy, or of self-denial that seem
to have no relation to the spirit of their time, inculcate duties and suggest
motives of action that appear to most men altogether chimericaU Yet the
magnetism of their perfections tells powerfully upon their contemporaries.
An enthusiasm is kindled, a group of adherents is formed, and many are
emancipated from the moral condition of their age. Yet the full effects of such
a movement are but transient. The first enthusiasm dies away, surrounding
circumstances resume their ascendency, the pure faith is materialised, en-
crusted with conceptions that are alien to its nature, dislocated, and distorted,
till its first features have almost disappeared. The moral teaching, being un-
suited to the time, becomes inoperative until its appropriate civilisation has
dawned; or at most it faintly and imperfectly filters through an accumulation
of dogmas, and thus accelerates in some measure the arrival of the condition
it requires. ''^
It is clear that Lecky was interested in the genius as an extraordinary
man who transcends the bounds of everyday routines; and in this, his
eA THE MAN AND HIS WORK
^ Statement foreshadows one of the key theories of Weber: the routiniza-
tion of charisma.
I Like Lecky, Weber sees the genuine charismatic situation quickly give
way to incipient institutions, which emerge from the coohng off of ex-
traordinary states of devotion and fervor. As the original doctrines are
democratized, they are intellectually adjusted to the needs of that stratum
^which becomes the primary carrier of the leader's message. If these ideas
are not adaptable in this way, then, regardless of their intrinsic merit,
either their message will fail to influence the conduct of everyday life
or those whom they do influence will remain enclosed in a special way
of life and alien to the larger social body. The religions of India, accord-
ing to Weber, have very often ended up as the doctrines of such aristoc-
racies of salvation.*
Emphasis upon the 'sovereignty of the charismatic man' does not
minimize the mechanics of institutions; on the contrary, by tracing out
the routinization of charisma, Weber is able to assign a heavy causal
weight to institutional routines. Thus he retains a social determinism
by emphasizing charisma's routinization. His handling of this problem
testifies to his constant endeavor to maintain a causal pluralism and to
bring the economic order into the balance.
In general, Weber's construction of historical dynamics in terms of
charisma and routinization is an attempt to answer the paradox of
unintended consequences. For the charisma of the first hour may incite
the followers of a warrior hero or prophet to forsake expediency for ulti-
mate values. But during the routinization of charisma, the material in-
terests of an increased following are the compelling factor,
fc-^ A charismatic movement may be routinized into traditionalism or into
\ bureaucratization. Which course is taken does not depend primarily
upon the subjective intentions of the followers or of the leader; it is
y . dependent upon the institutional framework of the movement, and espe-
? cially upon the economic order. 'The routinization of charisma, in quite
essential respects, is identical with adjustment to the conditions of the
economy, that is, to the continuously effective routines of workaday life.
In this, the economy leads and is not led.' ^ Just as in this particular con-
text a leading role is given to the economy, so does the very title of his
key work. Economics and Society, bespeak an appreciation of the de-
termining weight of the economic bases.
* See chapter xi, 'The Social Psychology of World Religions.'
INTELLECTUAL ORIENTATIONS 55
The 'philosophical' element in Weber's construction of history is this \
antinomic balance of charismatic movements (leaders and ideas) with A
rational routinization (enduring institutions and material interests). |
Man's spontaneity and freedom are placed on the side of heroic enthusi- I
asm, and thus there is an aristocratic emphasis upon elites ('virtuosos'!). /
This emphasis is intimately associated with Weber's attitude towards"^
modern democracy, which we have already indicated.
Yet Weber sees in the concept of 'personality' a much-abused notion
referring to a profoundly irrational center of creativity, a center before
which analytical inquiry comes to a halt. And he combats this poeticized
and romantic element." For his conceptual nominalism and his prag-
matic outlook are opposed to all reification of 'unanalyzed' processes. The
ultimate unit of analysis for him is the understandable motivations of "^
the single individual. His concepts are analytical tools with which he»-^
reconstructs various mechanisms. They are not descriptive categories, with
which one tries to 'taste' the color and grasp the surface image of the
'spirit of the times.' They are not concepts that contemplate the supposed
substances of great men and epochs. In fact, despite Weber's emphasis
on charisma, he is not likely to focus on 'the great figures of history.'
Napoleon, Calvin and Cromwell, Washington and Lincoln appear in his
texts only in passing. He tries to grasp what is retained of their work x/^
in the institutional orders and continuities of history. Not Julius Caesar,
but Caesarism; not Calvin, but Calvinism is Weber's concern. In order
to understand this fully, we have to understand his conceptual tools:
the constructed type, the typological series, the comparative method. j[
3: Methods of Social Science , '^^ii
Weber's methodological reflections are clearly indebted to the philos- ,
ophy of the enlightenment. His point of departure and the ultimate unit (
of his analysis is the individual person:
Interpretative sociology considers the individual [Einzelindtviduum] and
his action as the basic unit, as its 'atom' — if the disputable comparison for
once may be permitted. In this approach, the individual is also the upper
limit and the sole carrier of meaningful conduct. . . In general, for sociology,
such concepts as 'state,' 'association,' 'feudalism,' and the like, designate
certain categories of human interaction. Hence it is the task of sociology to
reduce these concepts to 'understandable' action, that is, without exception,
to the actions of participating individual men.^"
^[
56 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
The 'Robinson-Crusoe approach' of the classical economists and the
rationalist philosophers of the contract is echoed in this emphasis upon
the individual. But within Weber's thought such emphasis stands in
opposition to the tradition of Hegel and Ranke.
This latter tradition attempts to 'interpret' the individual person, insti-
tution, act, or style of work by seeing it as a 'document,' 'manifestation,'
or an 'expression' of a larger morphological unit that underlies particular
data. 'Interpretation' thus consists in understanding the union of the
more comprehensive totality with its part. The aspect partakes of the
quality of the whole. Thus Sombart, writing a book on The Jews and
Economic Life, tries to show the contribution and the paramount signifi-
cance of Jewry for the rise and workings of modern capitalism by 'under-
standing' Jewry and capitalism as partaking of the same 'spirit.' This
mode of 'understanding' the particular by seeing it as a document of an
underlying whole is rooted in German romantic and conservative thought
— a style that was elaborated in great detail and with surprising subtlety
and fruitfulness by Wilhelm Dilthey.
Max Weber incorporated the problem of understanding in his socio-
logical approach, which, as he was prone to emphasize, was one type of
sociology among other possibilities. He therefore called his perspective
'interpretative' or 'understanding' sociology. It is characteristic of his
rational and positivist position that he transformed the concept of under-
standing. 'Understanding' remained for him, however, a unique ap-
proach of the moral or cultural sciences, which deals with man rather
than with other animals or with lifeless nature. Man can 'understand'
or attempt to 'understand' his own intentions through introspection, and
he may interpret the motives of other men's conduct in terms of their
professed or ascribed intentions.
Weber distinguishes different 'types' of motivated actions. Character-
istically he rated as the most 'understandable' type those actions which
are in the nature of rational expediencies, and of which the conduct of
the 'economic man' is a prime example.
Less 'rational' actions are typed by Weber in terms of the pursuit of
'absolute ends,' as flowing from affectual sentiments, or as 'traditional.'
Since absolute ends are to be taken as 'given' data by the sociologist, an
action may be rational with reference to the means employed, but 'irra-
tional' with respect to the ends pursued. 'Affectual' action, which flows
purely from sentiment, is a less rational type of conduct. And finally, ap-
proaching the 'instinctual' level, there is 'traditional' conduct: unreflective
INTELLECTUAL ORIENTATIONS 57
and habitual, this type is sanctified because it 'has always been done' and
is therefore deemed appropriate. These types of 'actions' are construed
operationally in terms of a scale of rationality and irrationality. A typo-
logical device rather than a 'psychology' of motivations is thus described.
This nominalist approach, with its emphasis upon the rational relations
of ends and means as the most 'understandable' type of conduct, distin-
guishes Weber's work from conservative thought and its documentary
'understanding' by assimilating the singularity of an object into a spirit-
ualized whole. Yet, by emphasizing the understandability of human
conduct, as opposed to the mere causal explanation of 'social facts' as in
natural science, Weber draws the line between his interpretative sociology
and the 'physique sociale' in the tradition of Condorcet, which Comte
called sociologie^^ and Durkheim worked out in such an eminent man-
ner. It has correctly been observed that the basic types of social structure
that Weber uses — 'society,' 'association,' and 'community' — correspond
closely with his 'types of action' — the 'rationally expedient,' the 'affective,'
and the 'traditionalist.' ^^
Were one to accept Weber's methodological reflections on his own
work at their face value, one would not find a systematic justification
for his analysis of such phenomena as stratification or capitalism. Taken
literally, the 'method of understanding' would hardly allow for Weber's
use of structural explanations; for this type of explanation attempts to
account for the motivation of systems of action by their functions as go-
ing concerns rather than by the subjective intentions of the individuals
who act them out.
According to Weber's method of understanding, we should expect him
to adhere to a subjective theory of stratification, but he does not
do so. Similarly, one may point to Weber's refutation of a widespread
German stereotype of America as a nation of 'atomized individuals': 'In
the past and up to the very present, it has been a characteristic precisely
of the specifically American democracy that it did not constitute a form-
less sand heap of individuals but rather a buzzing complex of strictly
exclusive, yet voluntary, associations.' * Again, Weber sees the drift
towards Athenian democracy as determined by a change in military or-
ganization: Democracy emerged when the older army of Hoplites gave
way to Navalism. Similar structural explanations are displayed in the
manner in which he links the spread of bureaucracies with the task of
* See pp. 307 ff., this volume.
c8 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
administering large inland empires, such as Rome and China, Russia
and the United States.
In using the structural principle of explanation, Weber comes quite
close to the analytical procedure of Marxist thought, which, in a 'de-
spiritualized' way, makes use of the originally Hegelian and conservative
way of thinking.
In his methodological emphasis upon understanding- the individual as
the ultimate unit of explanation, Weber is polemical against this organi-
cist thought of conservatism as well as the Marxist use of objective mean-
ings of social action irrespective of the awareness of the actor.
Like Hegel and Adam Smith, Marx ascribed meanings to the process
of social interactions. Adam Smith's 'unseen hand' and Hegel's 'ruse of
the idea' appear in Marx's system as an objective logic of dynamic insti-
tutions that work themselves out behind the backs of the actors. In so far
as men know not what they do, they realize the blind forces of society.
Although these forces are the work of men, they simply remain, in
Veblen's term, 'opaque.' Thus Marx measures the subjective notions of
the actors of the system against the objective meaning as revealed by
scientific study. And in the comparison and typical incongruity between
what men think they do and the objective social functions of their acts,
Marx locates the ideological nature of the subject's 'false consciousness.'
In his writings on method, Weber rejects the assumption of any 'ob-
jective meaning.' He wished to restrict the understanding and interpre-
tation of meaning to the subjective intentions of the actor. Yet, in his
actual work, he is no less aware than is Marx of the paradoxical fact
that the results of interactions are by no means always identical with
what the actor intended to do. Thus the Purit^an wished to serve God,
but he helped to bring about modern capitalism. The point is also shown
in the following passage concerning capitalism and the individual:
This masterless slavery in which capitalism enmeshes the worker or the
debtor is only debatable ethically as an institution. In principle, the personal
conduct of those who participate, on either the side of the rulers or of the
ruled, is not morally debatable, as such conduct is essentially prescribed by
objective situations. If they do not conform, they are threatened by economic
bankruptcy which would, in every respect, be useless.^^
One might easily accumulate statements from Weber's work that
would reinforce this point, as the translations in the present volume make
clear. It is understandable that Weber felt it equally wrong to consider
INTELLECTUAL ORIENTATIONS 59
his work as an idealist interpretation of history as it was to consider
it as a case of historical materialism.
The nominalism of Weber's method may be understood in terms of V
his attempt to avoid a philosophical emphasis upon either material or \
ideal factors, or upon either structural or individual principles of ex- \
planation. His attachment to Western positivist thought is shown in his I
scorn for any 'philosophical' or 'metaphysical' elements in the social /
sciences. He wants to give these sciences the same matter-of-fact approach /
with which the natural sciences approach nature. /
A quantitative method goes hand in hand with such a conception and
stands in opposition to a perspective in which all phenomena are seen as
qualitatively unique entities. For Weber, historical and social uniqueness
results from specific combinations of general factors, which when iso-
lated are quantifiable. Thus the 'same' elements may be seen in a series
of other unique combinations. '. . . Of course, in the last analysis, all
qualitative contrasts in reality can somehow be comprehended as purely
quantitative differences made up of combinations of various single
factors.' ^* He does not say that quality can be 'reduced' to quantity; in-
deed, as a nominalist, he is quite sensitive to the qualitative uniqueness
of cultural reality and to the qualitative differences resulting from quan-
titative changes. For instance: 'From our special point of view, where
the increased fear of the world has led to a flight from occupational
pursuits in the private economy, pietism not only turns into something
differing in degree but into an element differing in quality.' ^^
The much-discussed 'ideal type,' a key term in Weber's methodologi-
cal discussion, refers to the construction of certain elements of reality
into a logically precise conception. The term 'ideal' has nothing to do
with evaluations of any sort. For analytical purposes, one may construct
ideal types of prostitution as well as of religious leaders. The term does
not mean that either prophets or harlots are exemplary or should be
imitated as representatives of an ideal way of life.
By using this term, Weber did not mean to introduce a new con-
ceptual tool. He merely intended to bring to full awareness what social
scientists and historians had been doing when they used words like 'the
economic man,' 'feudalism,' 'Gothic versus Romanesque architecture,'
or 'kingship.' He felt that social scientists had the choice of using logically
controlled and unambiguous conceptions, which are thus more removed
from historical reality, or of using less precise concepts, which are more I
closely geared to the empirical world. Weber's interest in world-wide
6o THE MAN AND HIS WORK
comparisons led him to consider extreme and 'pure cases.' These cases
became 'crucial instances' and controlled the level of abstraction that
he used in connection with any particular problem. The real meat of
history would usually fall in between such extreme types; hence Weber
would approximate the multiplicity of specific historical situations by
bringing various type concepts to bear upon the specific case under his
focus.
The quantitative approach to unique cultural constellations and the
conception of ideal types are intimately hnked with the comparative
method. This method implies that two constellations are comparable in
terms of some feature common to them both. A statement of such
common features implies the use of general concepts. The manner in
which Weber construes the world religions as variant interpretations of
'senseless suffering' displays his technique of arranging 'cases' on a typo-
logical scale.* The same technique is at work in his typology of capital-
ism, built along a scale of different avenues for profit-opportunities. As
general concepts, ideal types are tools with which Weber prepares the
descriptive materials of world history for comparative analysis. These
types vary in scope and in the level of their abstraction. When Weber
characterizes 'democracy' as 'a minimization of power,' he has the broad-
est formulation, and the least specific historically. Several techniques of
minimizing power, such as short terms of office, checks and balances,
thq referendum, and so on, are possible in particular historical cases.
These cases are worked into sub-types of democracy. By incorporating
selected historical features into the general conception of democracy, he
is able to restrict this general type and approximate historical cases
more closely.
His concern with specific historical problems and his interest in a com-
parative sociology of a generalizing nature are thus related; the difference
between them is one of emphasis. By the use of a battery of ideal types,
he builds up a conception of a particular historical case. In his compara-
tive studies, he uses the same ideal type conceptions, but he uses history
as a storehouse of examples for these concepts. In short, the respective
research interest — in elaborating a concept or in constructing a historical
object — determines his procedure.
(In any case, Weber is concerned with using generalized conceptions
n order to understand society as subject to lawful regularities. For such
* See chapter xi, 'The Social Psychology of World Religions.'
INTELLECTUAL ORIENTATIONS 5 1
regularities are necessary in order to satisfy an interest in causation. To
understand a sequence of regular events causally, one must examine
comparable conditions. Thus, in an attempt to validate his causal analy-
sis of religion and capitalism in the Occident, Weber examined many
other civilizations. Although capitalist beginnings could be observed
in these other civilizations, capitaHsm in the Western sense did not
emerge. Weber wished to find those factors in other civilizations which
blocked the emergence of capitalism, even though there were many
favorable conditions present for its emergence. By such a comparative
analysis of causal sequences, Weber tried to find not only the neces-
sary but the sufficient conditions of capitalism. Only in the Occident, par-
ticularly where inner-worldly asceticism produced a specific personality
type, were the sufficient conditions present. In his pluralism, he naturally
did not consider this type of personality the only factor involved in the
origin of capitalism; he merely wished to have it included among the
conditions of capitalism.
4: The Sociology of Ideas and Interests
The discussion of bureaucratic institutions and personal leaders, of
workaday routines and extraordinariness, is paralleled by Weber's con-
ception of the relations between ideas and interests. Both Marx and
Nietzsche had contributed to a theory of the function and content of
ideas; both of them shifted the traditional emphasis upon the content
of ideas to an emphasis upon the pragmatic connection of ideas with
their results. They developed techniques for interpreting ideas in terms
of their intended or actual service rather than in terms of their face value.
Marx viewed ideas in terms of their public function in the struggles
of classes and parties. Nietzsche approached ideas in terms of their
psychological service to the individual thinker, or at least when he did
speak of the public context, his sociological tools were so crude that only
the psychological mechanisms were fruitfully brought out in his analysis.
If for Marx ideas of practical import became ideologies as weapons in
the struggles of groups, for Nietzsche^ they turned into the rationaliza-
tions of individuals, or at best of 'masters and slaves.' Marx commented
that ideas become material forces as soon as they take hold of the
masses; he linked the historical vitality of ideas to their role in justifying
economic interests. Nietzsche modified Matthew's statement, 'He who
humbles himself shall be raised,' into 'He who humbles himself wants
62 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
to be raised.' Thus he ascribed voHtions to the speaker which lay be-
neath the content of his ideas. ' "I did that," says my memory, "I could
not have done that," says my pride and remains inexorable. Eventually —
the memory yields.' ^^
Weber attempts to incorporate the points of view both of Marx and
of Nietzsche in his discussion: With Marx, he shares the sociological
approach to ideas: they are powerless in history unless they are fused
with material interests: And with Nietzsche, he is deeply concerned
with the importance of ideas for psychic reactions.*
Yet, in contrast to both Nietzsche and Marx, Weber refuses to con-
ceive of ideas as being 'mere' reflections of psychic or social interests. All
spheres — intellectual, psychic, political, economic, religious — to some ex-
tent follow developments of their own. Where Marx and Nietzsche are
quick to see a correspondence between ideas and interests, Weber is also
eager to state possible tensions between ideas and interests, between one
sphere and another, or between internal states and external demands.
iThus, in analyzing Hebrew prophecy, he seeks to balance psychological
and historical influences:
In any case, one can hardly assume that an unambiguous psychic determi-
nation of 'political hypochondria' has been the source of the prophets' stand.
The prophecy of doom has to be deduced, to a large extent, from the psychical
disposition of the prophets, as determined by constitutional endowments and
personal experiences. Yet, it is no less certain that the historical destinies of
Israel have indeed given the prophecies of doom their place in religious de-
velopment. And this is so, not only in the sense that tradition has of course
preserved those oracles of the prophets that were fulfilled, which have ap-
peared to be fulfilled, or whose advent could still be expected. The increas-
ingly unshatterable prestige of prophecy in general has rested upon those
few cases that were terribly impressive for the prophet's contemporaries,
and in which the prophets by their success were unexpectedly in the right.^^
The decisive conception by which Weber relates ideas and interests
is that of 'elective affinity,' rather than 'correspondence,' 'reflection,' or
'expression.' For Marx, ideas 'express' interests; thus, the hidden God
of the Puritans expresses the irrationality and anonymity of the market.
For Nietzsche, asceticist Christianity 'reflects' the resentment of the
slaves, who thus 'express' their 'revolt in morals.' For Weber, there is
hardly ever a close connection between the interests or the social origin
* A brief discussion of Nietzsche's theory of resentment will be found in chapter xi,
'Social Psychology of World Religions,' and chapter vii, 'Class, Status, Party.'
INTELLECTUAL ORIENTATIONS 63
of the speaker or of his following with the content of the idea during
its inception. The ancient Hebrew prophets, the leaders of the Reforma-
tion, or the revolutionary vanguard of modern class movements were
not necessarily recruited from the strata which in due course be-
came the prime bearers of their respective ideas. Only during the process
of routinization do the followers 'elect' those features of the idea with
which they have an 'affinity,' a 'point of coincidence' or 'convergence.'
There is no pre-established correspondence between the content of an
idea and the interests of those who follow from the first hour. But, in
time, ideas are discredited in the face of history unless they point in the
direction of conduct that various interests promote. Ideas, selected and
reinterpreted from the original doctrine, do gain an affinity with the
interests of certain members of special strata; if they do not gain such an
affinity, they are abandoned. Thus by distinguishing the phases of the
personal and charismatic origin of ideas and their routinization and
social impact, Weber is able to take into account a number of complica-
tions, which are reflected in changing shades of meaning. Both the ideas
and their publics are seen as independent; by a selective process ele-
ments in both find their affinities.
Throughout his Hfe, Max Weber was engaged in a fruitful battle
with historical materialism. In his last course of lectures in Munich at
the time of the Revolution, he presented his course under the title, 'A
Positive Critique of Historical Materialism.' Yet there is a definite drift
of emphasis in his intellectual biography towards Marx.
When writing the Protestant Ethic, Weber was eager to emphasize
the autonomous role of ideas in the origin of modern capitalism —
though not, of course, in the sense of Hegel. He felt that modern capi-
talism in its beginnings required a certain type of personality. This
personality type, in turn, was psychologically construed as a result of
belief in a set of ideas that unwittingly resulted in the development
of those specific personality traits useful in capitalist conduct. Thus in
giving 'a spiritualist construction' of the background of modern capital-
ism, Weber begins with religious conceptions. In his last essays, how-
ever, he begins his analysis of China, for instance, with chapters on the
economic basis. The more embittered Weber became with German
politics, the more he came to appreciate the weight of material interests
in the success of ideas, however lofty in content and intention they might
be. Thus during the war he wrote: 'Not ideas, but material and ideal
interests directly govern man's conduct. Yet very frequently the "world
64 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
images" which have been created by "ideas" have, like switchmen, de-
termined the tracks along which action has been pushed by the dynamic
o£ interests.' ^®
Such passages remind one of the mechanical metaphors of Marx,
with his revolutions as the 'locomotives of history,' or of Trotsky with
his 'ideological switchmen.' ^^ Mechanical imagery of this sort seems
to stand opposite the organic metaphors of growth and development
favored by more conservative writers. Where images of organic nature
are utilized they are not images of gradualism and vegetative growth,
but of incubation and birth.
In Weber's handling of specific ideas, one may discern different levels
of sociological interpretation at work. In a sweeping way, he locates
entire 'world images' as symbol constructions associated with the social
conditions of specific strata. Thus he sees a connection between the re-
ligious conception of a quietistic and passive Being and the mystic
states and contemplative techniques of genteel and literary intellectuals,
especially in India and China. He tries to establish an intimate relation
between the nature of a predominant psychological state, the structure
of an act of perception, and the meaning of an object. All three aspects,
in turn, are facilitated by and have an affinity to the social-historical situ-
ation of the intellectuals within the social structure. This historical struc-
ture, by itself, does not determine the direction in which the strata of
intellectuals may elaborate their conceptions; rather it permits or blocks
the attempt, characteristic of intellectuals, to tackle the senselessness of
suffering and of the world.\ln the Occident, intellectuals also experi-
mented in the direction of mystic contemplation; but such endeavors,
according to Weber, were repeatedly frustrated. A more volitional and
active search for meaning became predominant in the Occident. ^
The active interests of Occidental intellectuals in mastering political
events have been connected with the volitional and anthropomorphic
image of a wrathful yet benign God. The main stream of Christianity
is thus seen in continuity with Hebrew prophecy. The prophets of
ancient Judaism are characterized as active demagogues, who by the
power of the word aimed at a mastery of the course of historical events.
The priesthood was not strong enough to suppress effectively such self-
appointed religious demagogues.
Weber, in his sociology of knowledge, was not, however, exclusively
concerned with such world images. He also concerned himself with
INTELLECTUAL ORIENWTIONS 67
many particular ideologies, which he saw as->f land, as well as com-
motivate materially interested strata. matically led raids on
Here are some examples: The acceptance of the reiiyres may be ex-
o£ the Crusades is linked to the imperialist aspirations oiiered princes,
who were interested in securing fiefs for their progeny. Calry of the
of course, displayed other motives. The emergence and diffusion Hemi-
mendicant monk order, or Franciscans, is linked to the interests otites
ula^ power leaders in exploiting their skill as unpaid teachers, or as
urban demagogues who during crises were able to tame urban masses.
Whether or not these mendicant monks would have survived against
the opposition of the Pope and the priesthood without having had these
skills is an open question. The same situation applies to the Jesuit order,
after the Pope outlawed them and Frederick the Great gave them asylum
in Prussia. The advocacy of the intrinsic value of a particular language
is often associated with the material interests of publishers in national-
ism. The commands of modern bureaucracies assume the form of
'general rules' rather than of 'particular decrees,' as may be seen in con-
nection with their general rationalizing tendency. When Weber deals
with political problems, he seems to use this mode of interpreting ideas
as simple justifications. When he handles religious problems, he is more
likely to emphasize the concept of 'elective affinity.'
5: Social Structures and Types of Capitalism
The pragmatic view of ideas, which Max Weber shares with Karl
Marx and John Dewey, is associated with a refutation of the Hegelian
tradition. Weber thus rejects such conceptions as 'national character'
and 'folk spirit,' which have permeated German historiography and
which, in conservative thinking, have served as tools of interpretation.
He construes social dynamics in terms of a pluralistic analysis of factors,
which may be isolated and gauged in terms of their respective causal
weights.. He does this by comparative analyses of comparable units,
which are found in different cultural settings.
This does not mean that he has no total conceptions of social struc-
tures. On the contrary, the more Weber comes to an analysis of the con-
temporary era, the more ready he is to speak of capitalism as a unit.
The unit is seen as a configuration of institutions, which by the logic
of their own requirements increasingly narrow the range of effective
choices open to men.
66 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
For Weber, a unit, such as capitalism, is not an undifferentiated whole
to be equated with 'an acquisitive instinct' or with 'pecuniary society.'
Rather it is seen, as Marx and Sorel saw it, as a scale of types, each of
which has peculiar institutional features. The further back Weber goes
historically, the more he is willing to see capitalism as one feature of a
historical situation; the more he approaches modern industrial capitalism,
the more willing he is to see capitalism as a pervasive and unifying affair.
High capitalism absorbs other institutions into its own image, and nu-
merous institutional crisscrosses give way to a set of parallel forces head-
ing in the same direction. This direction is towards the rationalization
of all spheres of life. In such an increasingly unilinear construction of
history, one may discern a sublimated conception of the liberal notion
of 'progress.'
In conformity with liberal thinking, which is interested in separating
politics and economics, ^ypbf-r djsringiiishes between two basic types of
capitalism : 'political capitalism' and 'modern industrial' or 'bourgeois
capitali^p.' * Capitalism, of course, can only emerge when at least the
beginnings of a money-economy exists.
In political capitalism, opportunities for profit are dependent upon the
preparation for and the exploitation of warfare, conquest, and the pre-
rogative power of political administration. Within this type are imperial-
ist, colonial, adventure or booty, and fiscal. In addition, with a view of
locating the peculiar marginal situation of trading groups, Weber speaks
of pariah capitalism. This concept is applied to Occidental Jewry from
later Antiquity to the present, and to the Parsees in India. Although
functionally indispensable, for reasons of ethnic and religious back-
ground, such strata are socially segregated and reduced to a pariah status.
By imperialist capitalism, Weber refers to a situation in which profit
interests are either the pacemakers or the beneficiaries of political ex-
pansion. The greatest examples are the Roman and the British Empires,
and the competitive imperialism of the present epoch. Colonial capital-
ism, intimately connected with political imperialism, refers to those
capitalisms which profit from the commercial exploitation of political
prerogatives over conquered territories. Such prerogatives include po-
litically guaranteed trading monopolies, shipping privileges, the politi-
* 'In my opinion Sombart has, in important respects, quite adequately characterized
what should be understood by the early capitalist epoch. There are no "definitive" his-
torical concepts. I do not share the vanity of contemporary authors who conduct them-
selves in the face of a terminology used by some one else as if it were his toothbrush.'
Archiv jiir Soziahvissenschaft tind Sozialpolitik., 1906, p. 348.
INTELLECTUAL ORIENTATIONS 67
cally determined acquisition and exploitation of land, as well as com-
pulsory labor. Adventure capitalism refers to charismatically led raids on
foreign countries for the sake of treasure. Such treasures may be ex-
tracted from temples, tombs, mines, or the chests of conquered princes,
or they may be raised as levies on the ornaments and jewelry of the
population. The heroic period of the conquest of the Western Hemi-
sphere by the Spaniards, the overseas enterprises of the Italian city-states
during the Middle Ages, the Hanseatic League, and the merchant ad-
venturers of England are pre-eminent historical examples. Whereas ad-
venture capitalism emphasizes the discontinuous and charismatic nature
of these operations, the term booty capitalism emphasizes the objectives
sought.
In certain contexts, Weber is eager to distinguish the extraordinary
capitalist from the routine activities of the workaday enterpriser; in the
former case he speaks of charismatic capitalists as 'economic supermen.^'
Such figures have occurred in many historical contexts: in the new
empire of ancient Egypt, in ancient China, India, in western Antiquity,
in the waning of the Middle Ages, as well as in nineteenth-century
America. The Fuggers and Rockefeller, Mellon, and Cecil Rhodes are
examples. The difference between such charismatic capitalists and 'sober
bourgeois' capitalists has been overlooked quite frequently in contro-
versies over the problem of the Protestant ethic and its causal relevance
for the rise of 'modern capitalism.' "°
Fiscal capitalism, as used by Weber, refers to certain profit opportuni-
ties that accrue from the exploitation of political prerogatives. The most
important phenomenon of this type is the farming out of tax collection
to private enterprisers, as was the rule in ancient Rome and the ancien
regime in France. The leasing of the sale of indulgences to Italian mer-
chants as compensations for their loans to the Vatican; the entrepreneurial
organization of military and naval forces by condottieri; the leasing of
the right to com money to private enterprisers, such as Jacob Fugger, are
further examples.
These analytical types of capitalism serve to emphasize different
aspects of historical situations that are themselves quite fluid. The unique-
ness of modern industrial capitalism consists in the fact that a specific
production establishment emerges and is enlarged at the expense of pre-
capitalist production units. This production establishment has its legal,
political, and ideological preconditions, but it is nevertheless historically
unique. It is based on the organization of formally free labor and the
68 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
fixed plant. The owner of the plant operates at his own risk and pro-
duces commodities for anonymous and competitive markets. His opera-
tions are usually controlled rationally by a constant balancing of costs
and returns. All elements, including his own entrepreneurial services,
are brought to book as items in the balance of his accounts.
I X,ike Marx, Weber insists upon locating the basic institutional unit
■ of modern capitalism in production rather than in commerce or finance.
A system of capitalism grows from these units of production. This
system undergoes various historical phases; its highest stage is char-
acterized by the separation of ownership and management and the
financing of corporations by sales to the public of shares in the possible
returns from future operations. For this late stage of capitalism, Weber
accepts Sombart's term, 'High Capitalism.'
Unlike Marx, however, Weber is not interested in investigating the
problems of capitalist dynamics. The problem of the business cycle and
the capitalist crises, which were so essential for Marx's characterization
of capitalism as 'an anarchy of production,' have httle part in Weber's
analysis. This omission is of consequence for Weber's conception of ra-
tionality in modern society. For Marx, the rational elements of society
were the means which served, yet which increasingly contradicted, un-
mastered and irrational elements. For Weber, capitalism is the highest
form of rational operations; yet it is implemented by two irrationalities:
the remains of an originally religiously anchored attitude: the irrational
calling and drive for continuous work; and modern socialism, seen as the
'utopia' of those who cannot stand up under what seems to them the
senseless injustice of an economic order which makes them dependent
upon propertied entrepreneurs. Being keenl) aware of the institutional
pressures of modern capitalism, Weber, at this point, is ready to make
use of the category of social totalities as 'going concerns.' Once in the
saddle, for instance, capitalism no longer needs religious motives.
In sociological theory, a 'subjective' theory of the stratification of
capitalism has often been opposed to an 'objective' one. The classic Eng-
Hsh economists, prominently Ricardo, as well as Marx represented the
objective theory, defining 'class' in terms of typically recurrent incomes:
rent, profit, wage. Accordingly, for them, landlord, entrepreneur, and
worker make up the class structure. It does not matter whether these
agents conceive of themselves as Britons, highlanders, or what not; their
class positions are strictly located by their place and function within
the objective economic order. Marx, adhering to this tradition, added a
INTELLECTUAL ORIENTATIONS 69
historical aspect by emphasizing the specifically modern nature of
bourgeois and proletarian classes.
Subjective theories of class, on the other hand, have placed great em-
phasis upon the psychic traits of 'class members.' Those holding this
subjective theory have been eager to speak of the 'fourth estate' as
emerging side by side w^ith the older estates. Conceptions of respecta-
bility and of social honor, descriptive elements of political and religious
opinions, and sentiments corinec'ted with local and regional ways of life
displace the strict theoretical approach of the economists. It was left to
Moeller van den Bruck, author of The Third Reich, to carry the sub-
jective theory of classes to absurdity: 'He is a proletariat who wants to
think of himself as one. The proletarian consciousness makes man a
proletariat, not the machine, not the mechanization of labor, not wage-
dependency on the capitalist mode of production.' ^^
Max Weber is not ready to let man overcome hard economic fate by
such acrobatics of will power. Class situations are determined by the
relations of the market; in the last analysis, they go back to the differ-
ences between the propertied and the non-propertied. He thus shares
with the objective school the emphasis upon the economic order and
the strict distinction between objectively characterized positions and a
variety of shifting and subjective attitudes that may be related to such
positions.
In locating the class problem in the market and in the streams of
income and property, Weber points towards production and its modern
unit, the capitalist enterprise. He is prepared to give full credit to Marx
for his insight into the historical nature of the modern class structure.
Only when subjective opinions can be attributed to men in an objective
class situation does Weber speak of 'class-consciousness'; and when he
focuses upon problems of 'conventions,' 'styles of life,' of occupational
attitudes, he prefers to speak of prestige or of 'status groups.' These latter
problems, of course, point towards consumption, which, to be sure, de-
pends upon income derived from production or from property, but
which goes beyond this sphere. By making this sharp distinction between
class and status, and by differentiating between types of classes and
types of status groups, Weber is able to refine the problems of stratifica-
tion to an extent which thus far has not been surpassed.*
* See chapter vii, 'Class, Status, Party,' for his analjsis.
70 the man and his work
6: Conditions of Freedom and the Image of Man
The habit of the modern pohtical inteUigentsia of cloaking the aspira-
tions of their parties under historical necessity, and of advancing such
constructions with the pathos of 'iron necessity,' is characteristic of con-
servatism as well as Marxism. In both cases the concept of freedom fol-
lows Hegel's 'Fata nolentem trahunt, volentem ducunt' (The fates drag
the one who does not will; they lead the one who does). On the political
right, the pre-eminent prophet of doom was Oswald Spengler, whose
morphological construction of culture cycles Weber criticized as arbi-
trary intuitions exploiting historical literature for non-scientific ends.
Weber's liberal heritage and urge prevented him from taking a
determinist position. He felt that freedom consists not in realizing alleged
historical necessities but rather in making deliberate choices between open
alternatives. The future is a field for strategy rather than a mere repeti-
tion or unfolding of the past. Yet the possibilities of the future are not
infinite, nor are they clay in the hands of the wilful man.
Weber saw social life as a polytheism of values in combat with one
another, and choices were possible among these values.* The decision-
making, morally responsible individual is, of course, a specifically modern
and Occidental type of personality. This man can be more than a
mere cog in his occupational groove. If he is responsible, he will have to
make informed decisions. To Weber, sociological knowledge is of a
kind that the complexity of modern civilization requires of one who
would take intelligent stands on public issues. Such responsible decisions
are equally remote from the emotional fanaticism of followers of dema-
gogues as from the cynical sophistication of the snob or the blase smug-
ness of the Philistine.
As he was not willing to see bureaucrats as harbingers of freedom,
Weber felt that the field of responsible freedom was shrinking. He saw
himself, in this connection, as an old-fashioned liberal, unafraid of being
on the defensive or of swimming against the stream. The following pas-
sage, which we reproduce at length, may illustrate Weber's fears as
well as his assertion of the conditions of modern freedom. It was written
in 1906.
* See chapter v, 'Science as a Vocation,' and chapter xiii, 'Rehgious Rejections of the
World.'
INTELLECTUAL ORIENTATIONS 7I
The opportunities for democracy and individualism would look very bad
today were we to rely upon the lawful effects of material interests for their
development. For the development of material interests points, as distinctly
as possible, in the opposite direction: in the American 'benevolent feudalism,'
in the so-called 'welfare institutions' of Germany, in the Russian factory con-
stitution . . . everywhere the house is ready-made for a new servitude. It
only waits for the tempo of technical economic 'progress' to slow down and
for rent to triumph over profit. The latter victory, joined with the exhaustion
of the remaining free soil and free market, will make the masses 'docile.'
Then man will move into the house of servitude. At the same time, the in-
creasing complexity of the economy, the partial governmentalization of eco-
nomic activities, the territorial expansion of the population — these processes
create ever-new work for the clerks, an ever-new specialization of functions,
and expert vocational training and administration. All this means caste.
Those American workers who were against the 'Civil Service Reform'
knew what they were about. They wished to be governed by parvenus of
doubtful morals rather than by a certified caste of mandarins. But their pro-
test was in vain.
In the face of all this, those who constantly fear that in the world of the
future too much democracy and individualism may exist and too little author-
ity, aristocracy, esteem for office, or such like, may calm down. Only too much
provision has been made to see to it that the trees of democratic individualism
do not shoot into the sky. According to all experience, history relentlessly
gives rebirth to aristocracies and authorities; and those who deem it necessary
for themselves, or for 'the people,' may cling to them. If only material con-
ditions and interest-constellations directly or indirectly created by them
mattered, then every sober reflection would convince us that all economic
weathercocks point in the direction of increasing servitude.
It is utterly ridiculous to see any connection between the high capitalism
of today — as it is now being imported into Russia and as it exists in Amer-
ica— with democracy or with freedom in any sense of these words. Yet this
capitalism is an unavoidable result of our economic development. The ques-
tion is: how are freedom and democracy in the long run at all possible under
the domination of highly developed capitalism? Freedom and democracy
are only possible where the resolute will of a nation not to allow itself to be
ruled like sheep is permanently alive. We are 'individualists' and partisans
of 'democratic' institutions 'against the stream' of material constellations. He
who wishes to be the weathercock of an evolutionary trend should give up
these old-fashioned ideals as soon as possible. The historical origin of modern
freedom has had certain unique preconditions which will never repeat them-
selves. Let us enumerate the most important of these:
First, the overseas expansions. In the armies of Cromwell, in the French
72 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
constituent assembly, in our whole economic life even today this breeze from
across the ocean is felt . . . but there is no new continent at our disposal.
Irresistibly the point of gravity of the population of Western civilization ad-
vances toward the great inland areas of the North American continent on
the one side and of Russia on the other. This happened once before, in late
antiquity. The monotonous plains of Russia and the United States facilitate
schematism.
Second, the uniqueness of the economic and social structure of the early
capitalist epoch in western Europe.
Third, the conquest of life by science, 'the self-realization of the spirit.'
The rational construction of institutional life, doubtless after having de-
stroyed innumerable 'values,' today, at least in principle, has done its work.
In the wake of the standardization of production, it has made the external
way of life uniform. Under present conditions of business, the impact of such
standardization is universal. Today, science itself no longer creates universal
personalities.
Finally, certain conceptions of ideal values, grown out of a world of defi-
nite religious ideas, have stamj)ed the ethical peculiarity and cultural values
of modern man. They have done so by working with numerous political con-
stellations, themselves quite unique, and with the material preconditions of
early capitalism. One need merely ask whether any material development or
even any development of the high capitalism of today could maintain or create
again these unique historical conditions of freedom and democracy in order
to know the answer. No shadow of probability speaks for the fact that
economic 'socialization' as such must harbor in its lap either the development
of inwardly 'free' personalities of 'altruistic' ideals."^
The defensive pessimism for the future of freedom, which is displayed
in this passage and which is a major theme of Weber's work, is rein-
forced by the fate he sees for charisma in the modern world. Although
he gives a quite nominalist definition of charisma, it rs clear that the
concept serves him as a metaphysical vehicle of man's freedom in history.
That freedom, as carried by charisma, is doomed is evident by his nostal-
gic remark concerning the French Revolution. After tracing and. classify-
ing modern liberties, Weber indicates that such liberties find their ulti-
mate justification in the concept of the natural law of reason; and then:
'The charismatic glorification of "reason" found its characteristic expres-
sion in Robespierre's apotheosis. This is the last form which charisma
has assumed in its long road of varied and rich destinies.' ^^ Weber's
concern with freedom was not only historical; it influenced his image
of contemporary man as an individual.
INTELLECTUAL ORIENTATIONS 73
He conceived of individual man as a composite of general character-
istics derived from social institutions; the individual as an actor of social
roles. However, this holds only for men in so far as they do not-
transcend the routines of everyday institutions. The concept of charisma
serves to underline Weber's view that all men everywhere are not to be
comprehended merely as social products.
Just as for George H. Mead the T is ordinarily in tension with the social
roles derived from the expectations of others, so for Weber the potentially
charismatic quality of man stands in tension with the external demands
of institutional life. For Mead, the tension between the I and the role-
demands is resolved in the creative response of the genius. For Weber,
the response of the charismatic leader to distress unifies external demands
and internal urges. In a broad sense, one may say that externality is
identified with constraint and charisma with freedom. Weber's concep-
tion of human freedom thus partakes of the humanist tradition of
liberalism which is concerned with the freedom of the individual to
create free institutions. Having incorporated the Marxist critique of capi-
talism, he sees the economic system as a compulsive apparatus rather
than as the locus of freedom.
For Weber, capitaHsm is the embodiment of rational impersonality;
the quest for freedom is identified with irrational sentiment and privacy.
Freedom is at best a tarrying for loving companionship and for the ca-
thartic experience of art as a this-worldly escape from institutional
routines. It is the privilege of the propertied and educated: it is freedom
without equality.
In this conception of freedom as a historically developed phenomena,
now on the defensive against both capitalism and bureaucracy, Weber
represents humanist and cultural liberalism rather than economic liberal-
ism. The humanist tradition in which Schiller wrote that 'Der Mensch
ist freigeschaffen, ist frei, und wiird' er in ketten geboren' is evidenced in
Weber's concern with the decline of the cultivated man as a well-rounded
personality in favor of the technical expert, who, from the human point
of view, is crippled.* Weber's own work is a realization of his self-image
as a cultivated man concerned with all things human. And the decline of
the humanist and the ascendancy of the expert is another documentation
for Weber of the diminished chances for freedom.
In terms of these two types of men, Weber sees modern civilization
as unique in world history. Past civilizations produced various types of
* See chapter viii, 'Bureaucracy.'
74 THE MAN AND HIS WORK
humanist elites: in China, the mandarin, a stratum of gentlemanly
literati; in antiquity, a leisured stratum o£ athletic and cultured men; in
England, the modern conventional gentlemen, a result of compromises
between 'merry old England' and middle-class Puritanism consummated
in the masculine club; in Latin civilizations, the French cavalier and the
Italian cortegiano, compromises between court nobilities and urban pa-
tricians, consummated in the salon of the lady. Such cultivated types
are now unfit for the management of economic and political affairs; they
are being displaced by the specialist bureaucrat and the professional poli-
tician. Weber gave little weight to followers of artistic and literary cult
leaders, who must belong to or depend upon circles of rentiers, or else
serve the literary fashions promoted by shrewd publishers.
In contrast to the liberalism of Kant and Fichte, and some modern
American educators. Max Weber saw education and the social produc-
tion of personalities as dependent upon politics and economics. His pes-
simism about political and economic freedom is thus supplemented by
his pessimism about the realms of art, cultivation, and the personality
types possible for contemporary man.
Parti
SCIENCE AND POLITICS
IV. Politics as a Vocation
This lecture, which I give at your request, will necessarily disappoint
you in a number of ways. You will naturally expect me to take a posi-
tion on actual problems of the day. But that will be the case only in a
purely formal way and toward the end, when I shall raise certain ques-
tions concerning the significance of political action in the whole way of
life. In today's lecture, all questions that refer to what policy and what
content one should give one's political activity must be eliminated. For
such questions have nothing to do with the general question of what
politics as a vocation means and what it can mean. Now to our subject
matter.
What do we understand by politics? The concept is extremely broad
and comprises any kind of independent leadership in action. One speaks
of the currency policy of the banks, of the discounting policy of the
Reichsbank, of the strike policy of a trade union; one may speak of the
educational policy of a municipality or a township, of the policy of the
president of a voluntary association, and, finally, even of the policy of a
prudent wife who seeks to guide her husband. Tonight, our reflections
are, of course, not based upon such a broad concept. We wish to under-
stand by politics only the leadership, or the influencing of the leadership,
of a political association, hence today, of a state.
But what is a 'political' association from the sociological point of view?
What is a 'state'? Sociologically, the state cannot be defined in terms of
its ends. There is scarcely any task that some political association has not
taken in hand, and there is no task that one could say has always been
exclusive and peculiar to those associations which are designated as po-
litical ones: today the state, or historically, those associations which have
been the predecessors of the modern state. Ultimately, one can define
'Politik als Beruf,' Gesammelte PoUtische Schriften (Muenchen, 1921), pp. 396-450.
Originally a speech at Munich University, 191 8, published in 191 9 by Duncker & Hum-
blodt, Munich.
77
^8 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
the modern state sociologically only in terms o£ the specific means
peculiar to it, as to every political association, namely, the use of physical
force.
'Every state is founded on force,' said Trotsky at Brest-Litovsk. That
is indeed right. If no social institutions existed which knew the use of
violence, then the concept of 'state' would be eliminated, and a condi-
tion would emerge that could be designated as 'anarchy,' in the specific
sense of this word. Of course, force is certainly not the normal or the
only means of the state — nobody says that — but force is a means specific
to the state. Today the relation between the state and violence is an
especially intimate one. In the past, the most varied institutions — be-
ginning with the sib — have known the use of physical force as quite
normal. Today, however, we have to say that a state is a human com-
munity that (successfully) claims the monopoly of the legitimate use of
physical force within a given territory. Note that 'territory' is one of the
characteristics of the state. Specifically, at the present time, the right to
use physical force is ascribed to other institutions or to individuals only
' to the extent to which the state permits it. The state is considered the
sole source of the 'right' to use violence. Hence, 'politics' for us means
striving to share power or striving to influence the distribution of power,
either among states or among groups within a state.
This corresponds essentially to ordinary usage. When a question is said
to be a 'political' question, when a cabinet minister or an official is said
to be a 'political' official, or when a decision is said to be 'politically'
determined, what is always meant is that interests in the distribution,
maintenance, or transfer of power are decisive for answering the ques-
tions and determining the decision or the official's sphere of activity. He
who is active in politics strives for power either as a means in serving
other aims, ideal or egoistic, or as 'power for power's sake,' that is, in
order to enjoy the prestige-feeling that power gives.
Like the political institutions historically preceding it, the state is a
relation of men dominating men, a relation supported by means of legiti-
mate (i.e. considered to be legitimate) violence. If the state is to exist,
the dominated must obey the authority claimed by the powers that be.
When and why do men obey? Upon what inner justifications and upon
what external means does this domination rest?
To begin with, in principle, there are three inner justifications, hence
basic legitimations of domination.
First, the authority of the 'eternal yesterday,' i.e. of the mores sanctified
/
POLITICS AS A VOCATION 79
through the unimaginably ancient recognition and habitual orientation
to conform. This is 'traditionaT jomination exercised by the patriarch
and the patrimonial prince o£ yore.
There is the authority of the extraordinary and personal gift of grace
(charisma), the absolutely personal devotion and personal confidence in
revelation, heroism, or other qualities of individual leadership. This is
'charismatic' domination, as exercised by the prophet or — in the field of
politics — by the elected war lord, the plebiscitarian ruler, the great dema-
gogue, or the political party leader.
Finally, there is domination by virtue of 'legality,' by virtue of the
belief in the validity of legal statute and functional 'competence' based
on rationally created rules. In this case, obedience is expected in dis-
charging statutory obligations. This is domination as exercised by the
modern 'servant of the state' and by all those bearers of power who in
this respect resemble him.
It is understood that, in reality, obedience is determined by highly
robust motives of fear and hope — fear of the vengeance of magical powers
or of the power-holder, hope for reward in this world or in the beyond —
and besides all this, by interests of the most varied sort. Of this we shall
speak presently. However, in asking for the 'legitimations' of this
obedience, one meets with these threejpure' J^es : 'traditional,' 'charis-
matic,' and 'legal.'
These conceptions of legitimacy and their inner justifications are of
very great significance for the structure of domination. To be sure, the
pure types are rarely found in reality. But today we cannot deal with
the highly complex variants, transitions, and combinations of these pure
types, which problems belong to 'political science.' Here we are inter-
ested above all in the second of these types: domination by virtue of the
devotion of those who obey the purely personal 'charisma' of the
'leader.' For this is the root of the idea of a calling in its highest ex-
pression.
Devotion to the charisma of the prophet, or the leader in war, or to
the great demagogue in the ecclesia or in parliament, means that the
leader is personally recognized as the innerly 'called' leader of men.
Men do not obey him by virtue of tradition or statute, but because they
believe in him. If he is more than a narrow and vain upstart* of the
moment, the leader lives for his cause .and 'strives for his work.' ^ The
devotion of his disciples, his followers, his personal party friends is
oriented to his person and to its qualities.
So SCIENCE AND POLITICS
Charismatic leadership has emerged in all places and in all historical
epochs. Most importantly in the past, it has emerged in the two figures
of the magician and the prophet on the one hand, and in the elected
war lord, the gang leader and condotierre on the other hand. Political
leadership in the form of the free 'demagogue' who grew from the soil
of the city state is of greater concern to us; like -the city state, the dema-
gogue is peculiar to the Occident and especially to Mediterranean cul-
ture. Furthermore, political leadership in the form of the parliamentary
'party leader' has grown on the soil of the constitutional state, which
is also indigenous only to the Occident.
These politicians by virtue of a 'calling,' in the most genuine sense
of the word, are of course nowhere the only decisive figures in the cross-
currents of the political struggle for power. The sort of auxiliary means
that are at their disposal is also highly decisive. How do the politically
dominant powers manage to maintain their domination? The question
pertains to any kind of domination, hence also to political domination
in all its forms, traditional as well as legal and charismatic.
Organized domination, which calls for continuous administration, re-
quires that human conduct be conditioned to obedience towards those
masters who claim to be the bearers of legitimate power. On the other
hand, by virtue of this obedience, organized domination requires the
control of those material goods which in a given case are necessary for
the use of physical violence. Thus, organized domination requires con-
trol of the personal executive staff and the material implements of ad-
ministration.
The administrative staff, which externally represents the organization
of political domination, is, of course, like any other organization, bound
by obedience to the power-holder and not alone by the concept of legiti-
macy, of which we have just spoken. There are two other means,
both of which appeal to personal interests: material reward and social
honor. The fiefs of vassals, the prebends of patrimonial officials, the
salaries of modern civil servants, the honor of knights, the privileges of
estates, and the honor of the civil servant comprise their respective
wages. The fear of losing them is the final and decisive basis for soli-
darity between the executive staff and the power-holder. There is honor
and booty for the followers in war; for the demagogue's following, there
are 'spoils' — that is, exploitation of the dominated through the monopo-
lization of office — and there are politically determined profits and
POLITICS AS A VOCATION 8 1
premiums of vanity. All of these rewards are also derived from the
domination exercised by a charismatic leader.
To maintain a dominion by force, certain material goods are required,
just as with an economic organization. All states may be classified accord-
ing to whether they rest on the principle that the staff of men themselves
own the administrative means, or whether the staff is 'separated' from
these means of administration. This distinction holds in the same sense
in which today we say that the salaried employee and the proletarian
in the capitalistic enterprise are 'separated' from the material means of
production. The power-holder must be able to count on the obedience
of the staff members,' officials, or whoever else they may be. The ad-
ministrative means may consist of money, building, war material, ve-
hicles, horses, or whatnot. The question is whether or not the power-
holder himself directs and organizes the administration while delegating
executive power to personal servants, hired officials, or personal favor-
ites and confidants, who are non-owners, i.e. who do not use the mate-
rial means of administration in their own right but are directed by the
lord. The distinction runs through all administrative organizations of
the past.
These political associations in which the material means of adminis-
tration are autonomously controlled, wholly or partly, by the dependent
administrative staff may be called associations organized in 'estates.' The
vassal in the feudal association, for instance, paid out of his own pocket
for the administration and judicature of the district enfeoffed to him.
He supplied his own equipment and provisions for war, and his sub-
vassals did likewise. Of course, this had consequences for the lord's
position of power, which only rested upon a relation of personal faith
and upon the fact that the legitimacy of his possession of the fief and
the social honor of the vassal were derived from the overlord.
However, everywhere, reaching back to the earliest political forma-
tions, we also find the lord himself directing the administration. He seeks
to take the administration into his own hands by having men personally
dependent upon him: slaves, household officials, attendants, personal
'favorites,' and prebendaries enfeoffed in kind or in money from his
magazines. He seeks to defray the expenses from his own pocket, from
the revenues of his patrimonium; and he seeks to create an army which
is dependent upon him personally because it is equipped and provisioned
out of his granaries, magazines, and armories. In the association of
'estates,' the lord rules with the aid of an autonomous 'aristocracy' and
82 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
hence shares his domination with it; the lord who personally administers
is supported either by members of his household or by plebeians. These
are property less strata having no social honor of their own; materially,
they are completely chained to him and are not backed up by any com-
peting power of their own. All forms of patriarchal and patrimonial
domination, Sultanist despotism, and bureaucratic states belong to this
latter type. The bureaucratic state order is especially important; in its
most rational development, it is precisely characteristic of the modern
state.
Everywhere the development of the modern state is initiated through
the action of the prince. He paves the way for the expropriation of the
autonomous and 'private' bearers of executive power who stand beside
him, of those who in their own right possess the means of administration,
warfare, and financial organization, as well as politically usable goods of
all sorts. The whole process is a complete parallel to the development
of the capitalist enterprise through gradual expropriation of the inde-
pendent producers^ In the end, the modern state controls the total means
of political organization, which actually come together under a single
head. No single official personally owns the money he pays out, or the
buildings, stores, tools, and war machines he controls. 'In the contempo-
rary 'state' — and this is essential for the concept of state-^the 'separation'
of the administrative staff, of the administrative officials, and of the
workers from the material means of administrative organization is com-
pleted. Here the most modern development begins, and we see with our
own eyes the attempt to inaugurate the expropriation of this expropria-
tor of the political means, and therewith of political power.
The revolution [of Germany, 191 8] has accomplished, at least in so far
as leaders have taken the place of the statutory authorities, this much:
the leaders, through usurpation or election, have attained control over
the political staff and the apparatus of material goods; and they deduce
their legitimacy — no matter with what right — from the will of the gov-
erned. Whether the leaders, on the basis of this at least apparent success,
can rightfully entertain the hope of also carrying through the expropria-
tion within the capitalist enterprises is a different question. The direction
of capitalist enterprises, despite far-reaching analogies, follows quite
different laws than those of political administration.
Today we do not take a stand on this question. I state only the purely
conceptual aspect for our consideration: the modern state is a compulsory
association which organizes domination. It has been successful in seeking
POLITICS AS A VOCATION 83
to monopolize the legitimate use o£ physical force as a means of domina-
tion within a territory. To this end the state has combined the material
means of organization in the hands of its leaders, and it has expropriated
all autonomous functionaries of estates who formerly controlled these
means in their own right. The state has taken their positions and now
stands in the top place.
During this process of political expropriation, which has occurred with
varying success in all countries on earth, 'professional politicians' in an-
other sense have emerged. They arose first in the service of a prince. They
have been men who, unlike the charismatic leader, have not wished to
be lords themselves, but who have entered the service of political lords.
In the struggle of expropriation, they placed themselves at the princes'
disposal and by managing the princes' politics they earned, on the one
hand, a living and, on the other hand, an ideal content of life. Again,
it is only in the Occident that we find this kind of professional politician
in the service of powers other than the princes. In the past, they have
been the most important power instrument of the prince and his instru-
ment of political expropriation.
Before discussing 'professional politicians' in detail, let us clarify in
all its aspects the state of affairs their existence presents. Politics, just as
economic pursuits, may be a man's avocation or his vocation. One may
engage in politics, and hence seek to influence the distribution of power
within and between political structures, as an 'occasional' politician. We
are all 'occasional' politicians when we cast our ballot or consummate a
similar expression of intention, such as applauding or protesting in a
'political' meeting, or delivering a 'political' speech, etc. The whole rela-
tion of many people to politics is restricted to this. Politics as an avocation
is today practiced by all those party agents and heads of voluntary po-
litical associations who, as a rule, are politically active only in case of
need and for whom politics is, neither materially nor ideally, 'their life'
in the first place. The same holds for those members of state counsels
and similar deliberative bodies that function only when summoned. It
also holds for rather broad strata of our members of parliament who are
politically active only during sessions. In the past, such strata were
found especially among the estates. Proprietors of military implements
in their own right, or proprietors of goods important for the administra-
tion, or proprietors of personal prerogatives may be called 'estates.' A
large portion of them were far from giving their lives wholly, or merely
preferentially, or more than occasionally, to the service of politics. Rather,
I
84 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
they exploited their prerogatives in the interest of gaining rent or even
profits; and they became active in the service of poHtical associations
only when the overlord of their status-equals especially demanded it. It
was not different in the case of some of the auxiliary forces which the
prince drew into the struggle for the creation of a political organization
to be exclusively at his disposal. This was the nature of the Rate von
Hans aus [councilors] and, still further back, of a considerable part of
the councilors assembling in the 'Curia' and other deliberating bodies of
the princes. But these merely occasional auxiliary forces engaging in
politics on the side were naturally not sufficient for the prince. Of neces-
sity, the prince sought to create a staflF of helpers dedicated wholly and
exclusively to serving him, hence making this their major vocation. The
structure of the emerging dynastic political organization, and not only
this but the whole articulation of the culture, depended to a considerable
degree upon the question of where the prince recruited agents.
A staff was also necessary for those political associations whose mem-
bers constituted themselves politically as (so-called) 'free' communes un-
der the complete abolition or the far-going restriction of princely power.
They were 'free' not in the sense of freedom from domination by
force, but in the sense that princely power legitimized by tradition
(mostly religiously sanctified) as the exclusive source of all authority was
absent. These communities have their historical home in the Occident.
Their nucleus was the city as a body politic, the form in which the city
first emerged in the Mediterranean culture area. In all these cases, what
did the politicians who made politics their major vocation look like?
There are two ways of making politics one's vocation: Either one
lives 'for' politics or one lives 'off' politics. By no means is this contrast
an exclusive one. The rule is, rather, that man does both, at least in
thought, and certainly he also does both in practice. He who lives 'for'
poHtics makes politics his life, in an internal sense. Either he enjoys the
naked possession of the power he exerts, or he nourishes his inner balance
and self-feeling by the consciousness that his life has meaning in the
service of a 'cause.' In this internal sense, every sincere man who lives
for a cause also lives off this cause. The distinction hence refers to a
much more substantial aspect of the matter, namely, to the economic. He
who strives to make politics a permanent source of income lives 'off'
politics as a vocation, whereas he who does not do this lives 'for' politics.
Under the dominance of the private property order, some — if you wish —
POLITICS AS A VOCATION 85
very trivial preconditions must exist in order for a person to be able to
live 'for' politics in this economic sense. Under normal conditions, the
politician must be economically independent of the income politics can
bring him. This means, quite simply, that the politician must be wealthy
or must have a personal position in life which yields a sufficient income.
This is the case, at least in normal circumstances. The war lord's fol-
lowing is just as Uttle concerned about the conditions of a normal
economy as is the street crowd following of the revolutionary hero.
Both hve oflf booty, plunder, confiscations, contributions, and the imposi-
tion of worthless and compulsory means of tender, which in essence
amounts to the same thing. But necessarily, these are extraordinary
phenomena. In everyday economic life, only some wealth serves the
purpose of making a man economically independent. Yet this alone does
not suffice. The professional politician must also be economically 'dis-
pensable,' that is, his income must not depend upon the fact that he
constantly and personally places his ability and thinking entirely, or at
least by far predominantly, in the service of economic acquisition. In
the most unconditional way, the rentier is dispensable in this sense.
Hence, he is a man who receives completely unearned income. He may
be the territorial lord of the past or the large landowner and aristocrat
of the present who receives ground rent. In Antiquity and the Middle
Ages they who received slave or serf rents or in modern times rents
from shares or bonds or similar sources — these are rentiers.
Neither the worker nor — and this has to be noted well — the entre-
preneur, especially the modern, large-scale entrepreneur, is economically
dispensable in this sense. For it is precisely the entrepreneur who is tied
to his enterprise and is therefore not dispensable. This holds for the
entrepreneur in industry far more than for the entrepreneur in agricul-
ture, considering the seasonal character of agriculture. In the main, it is
very difficult for the enterpreneur to be represented in his enterprise
by someone else, even temporarily. He is as little dispensable as is the
medical doctor, and the more eminent and busy he is the less dispensable
he is. For purely organizational reasons, it is easier for the lawyer to
be dispensable; and therefore the lawyer has played an incomparably
greater, and often even a dominant, role as a professional politician. We
shall not continue in this classification; rather let us clarify some of its
ramifications.
The leadership of a state or of a party by men who (in the economic
sense of the word) live exclusively for politics and not off politics means
86 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
necessarily a 'plutocratic' recruitment of the leading political strata. To
be sure, this does not mean that such plutocratic leadership signifies at
the same time that the politically dominant strata will not also seek to
live 'off politics, and hence that the dominant stratum will not usually
exploit their political domination in their own economic interest. All that
is unquestionable, of course. There has never been such a stratum that
has not somehow lived 'off politics. Only this is meant: that the profes-
sional politician need not seek remuneration directly for his political
work, whereas every politician without means must absolutely claim this.
On the other hand, we do not mean to say that the propertyless politician
will pursue private economic advantages through politics, exclusively, or
even predominantly. Nor do we mean that he will not think, in the
first place, of 'the subject matter.' Nothing would be more incorrect. Ac-
cording to all experience, a care for the economic 'security' of his exist-
ence is consciously or unconsciously a cardinal point in the whole life
orientation of the wealthy man. A quite reckless and unreserved political
ideaHsm is found if not exclusively at least predominantly among those
strata who by virtue of their propertylessness stand entirely outside of
the strata who are interested in maintaining the economic order of a
given society. This holds especially for extraordinary and hence revolu-
tionary epochs. A non-plutocratic recruitment of interested politicians, of
leadership and following, is geared to the self-understood precondition
that regular and reliable income will accrue to those who manage
politics.
Either politics can be conducted 'honorifically' and then, as one usually
says, by 'independent,' that is, by wealthy, men, and especially by
rentiers. Or, political leadership is made accessible to propertyless men
who must then be rewarded. The professional politician who lives 'off
politics may be a pure 'prebendary' or a salaried 'official.' Then the poli-
tician receives either income from fees and perquisites for specific serv-
ices— tips and bribes are only an irregular and formally illegal variant
of this category of income — or a fixed income in kind, a money salary,
or both. He may assume the character of an 'entrepreneur,' like the
condottiere or the holder of a farmed-out or purchased office, or like the
American boss who considers his costs a capital investment which he
brings to fruition through exploitation of his influence. Again, he may
receive a fixed wage, like a journalist, a party secretary, a modern cabinet
minister, or a political official. Feudal fiefs, land grants, and prebends of
all sorts have been typical, in the past. With the development of the
POLITICS AS A VOCATION 87
money economy, perquisites and prebends especially are the typical re-
wards for the following of princes, victorious conquerors, or successful
party chiefs. For loyal services today, party leaders give offices of all sorts
— in parties, newspapers, co-operative societies, health insurance, munici-
paUties, as well as in the state. All party struggles are struggles for the
patronage of office, as well as struggles for objective goals.
In Germany, all struggles between the proponents of local and of
central government are focused upon the question of which powers shall
control the patronage of office, whether they are of Berlin, Munich,
Karlsruhe, or Dresden. Setbacks in participating in offices are felt more
severely by parties than is action against their objective goals. In France,
a turnover of prefects because of party politics has always been con-
sidered a greater transformation and has always caused a greater uproar
than a modification in the government's program — the latter almost hav-
ing the significance of mere verbiage. Some parties, especially those in
America since the disappearance of the old conflicts concerning the inter-
pretation of the constitution, have become pure patronage parties hand-
ing out jobs and changing their material program according to the chances
of grabbing votes.
In Spain, up to recent years, the two great parties, in a conventionally
fixed manner, took turns in office by means of 'elections,' fabricated from
above, in order to provide their followers with offices. In the Spanish
colonial territories, in the so-called 'elections,' as well as in the so-called
'revolutions,' what was at stake was always the state bread-basket from
which the victors wished to be fed.
In Switzerland, the parties peacefully divided the offices among them-
selves proportionately, and some of our 'revolutionary' constitutional
drafts, for instance the first draft of the Badenian constitution, sought
to extend this system to ministerial positions. Thus, the state and state
offices were considered as pure institutions for the provision of spoilsmen.
Above all, the Catholic Center party was enthusiastically for this draft.
In Badenia, the party, as part of the party platform, made the distribution
of offices proportional to confessions and hence without regard to achieve-
ment. This tendency becomes stronger for all parties when the number
of offices increase as a result of general bureaucratization and when the
demand for offices increases because they represent specifically secure
livelihoods. For their followings, the parties become more and more a
means to the end of being provided for in this manner.
The development of modern officialdom into a highly qualified, pro-
SCIENCE AND POLITICS
fessional labor force, specialized in expertness through long years of
preparatory training, stands opposed to all these arrangements. Modern
bureaucracy in the interest of integrity has developed a high sense of
status honor; without this sense the danger of an awful corruption and
a vulgar Philistinism threatens fatally. And without such integrity, even
the purely technical functions of the state apparatus would be endan-
gered. The significance of the state apparatus for the economy has been
steadily rising, especially with increasing socialization, and its significance
will be further augmented.
In the United States, amateur administration through booty politicians
in accordance with the outcome of presidential elections resulted in the
exchange of hundreds of thousands of officials, even down to the mail
carrier. The administration knew nothing of the professional civil-
servant-for-life, but this amateur administration has long since been
punctured by the Civil Service Reform. Purely technical, irrefrageable
needs of the administration have determined this development.
In Europe, expert officialdom, based on the division of labor, has
emerged in a gradual development of half a thousand years. The Italian
cities and seigniories were the beginning, among the monarchies, and
the states of the Norman conquerors. But the decisive step was taken
in connection with the administration of the finances of the prince. With
the administrative reforms of Emperor Max, it can be seen how hard it
was for the officials to depose successfully of the prince in this field, even
under the pressure of extreme emergency and of Turkish rule. The
sphere of finance could afford least of all a ruler's dilettantism — a ruler
who at that time was still above all a knight. The development of war
technique called forth the expert and specialized officer; the differentia-
tion of legal procedure called forth the trained jurist. In these three
areas — finance, war, and law — expert officialdom in the more advanced
states was definitely triumphant during the sixteenth century. With the
ascendancy of princely absolutism over the estates, there was simultane-
ously a gradual abdication of the prince's autocratic rule in favor of an
expert officialdom. These very officials had only facilitated the prince's
victory over the estates.
The development of the 'leading politicians' was realized along with
the ascendancy of the specially trained officialdom, even if in far less
noticeable transitions. Of course, such really decisive advisers of the
princes have existed at all times and all over the world. In the Orient,
the need for relieving the Sultan as far as possible from personal respon-
POLITICS AS A VOCATION 89
sibility for the success of the government has created the typical figure
of the 'Grand Vizier.' In the Occident, influenced above all by the reports
of the Venetian legates, diplomacy first became a consciously cultivated
art in the age of Charles V, in Machiavelli's time. The reports of the
Venetian legates were read with passionate zeal in expert diplomatic
circles. The adepts of this art, who were in the main educated humanis-
tically, treated one another as trained initiates, similar to the humanist
Chinese statesmen in the last period of the warring states. The neces-
sity of a formally unified guidance of the whole policy, including that
of home affairs, by a leading statesman finally and compellingly arose
only through constitutional development. Of course, individual personal-
ities, such as advisers of the princes, or rather, in fact, leaders, had
again and again existed before then. But the organization of adminis-
trative agencies even in the most advanced states first proceeded along
other avenues. Top collegial administrative agencies had emerged. In
theory, and to a gradually decreasing extent in fact, they met under the
personal chairmanship of the prince who rendered the decision. This
collegial system led to memoranda, counter-memoranda, and reasoned
votes of the majority and the minority. In addition to the official and
highest authorities, the prince surrounded himself with purely personal
confidants — the 'cabinet' — and through them rendered his decisions, after
considering the resolutions of the state counsel, or whatever else the
highest state agency was called. The prince, coming more and more into
the position of a dilettante, sought to extricate himself from the unavoid-
ably increasing weight of the expertly trained officials through the col-
legial system and the cabinet. He sought to retain the highest leadership
in his own hands. This latent struggle betv/een expert officialdom and
autocratic rule existed everywhere. Only in the face of parliaments and
the power aspirations of party leaders did the situation change. Very
different conditions led to the externally identical result, though to be
sure with certain differences. Wherever the dynasties retained actual
power in their hands — as was especially the case in Germany — the inter-
ests of the prince were joined with those of officialdom against parlia-
ment and its claims for power. The officials were also interested in hav-
ing leading positions, that is, ministerial positions, occupied by their own
ranks, thus making these positions an object of the official career. The
monarch, on his part, was interested in being able to appoint the min-
isters from the ranks of devoted officials according to his own discretion.
Both parties, however, were interested in seeing the political leadership
90 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
confront parliament in a unified and solidary fashion, and hence in
seeing the collegial system replaced by a single cabinet head. Further-
more, in order to be removed in a purely formal way from the struggle
of parties and from party attacks, the monarch needed a single person-
ality to cover him and to assume responsibility, that is, to answer to par-
liament and to negotiate with the parties. All these interests worked
together and in the same direction: a minister emerged to direct the
officialdom in a unified way.
Where parliament gained supremacy over the monarch — as in England
— the development of parliamentary power worked even more strongly
in the direction of a unification of the state apparatus. In England, the
'cabinet,' with the single head of Parliament as its 'leader,' developed
as a committee of the party which at the time controlled the majority.
This party power was ignored by official law but, in fact, it alone was
politically decisive. The official collegial bodies as such were not organs
of the actual ruling power, the party, and hence could not be the bearers
of real government. The ruling party required an ever-ready organiza-
tion composed only of its actually leading men, who would confidentially
discuss matters in order to maintain power within and be capable of
engaging in grand politics outside. The cabinet is simply this organi-
zation. However, in relation to the public, especially the parliamentary
public, the party needed a leader responsible for all decisions — the cabinet
head. The English system has been taken over on the Continent in the
form of parliamentary ministries. In America alone, and in the de-
mocracies influenced by America, a quite heterogeneous system was
placed into opposition with this system. The American system placed
the directly and popularly elected leader of the victorious party at the head
of the apparatus of officials appointed by him and bound him to the
consent of 'parliament' only in budgetary and legislative matters.'
The development of politics into an organization which demanded
training in the struggle for power, and in the methods of this struggle
as developed by modern party policies, determined the separation of
public functionaries into two categories, which, however, are by no
means rigidly but nevertheless distinctly separated. These categories are
'administrative' officials on the one hand, and 'political' officials on the
other. The 'political' officials, in the genuine sense of the word, can
regularly and externally be recognized by the fact that they can be
transferred any time at will, that they can be dismissed, or at least
temporarily withdrawn. They are like the French prefects and the com-
POLITICS AS A VOCATION 9I
parable officials of other countries, and this is in sharp contrast to the
'independence' of officials with judicial functions. In England, officials
who, according to fixed convention, retire from office when there is a
change in the parliamentary majority, and hence a change in the cabi-
net, belong to this category. There are usually among them some whose
competence includes the management of the general 'inner administra-
tion.' The political element consists, above all, in the task of maintaining
'law and order' in the country, hence maintaining the existing power re-
lations. In Prussia these officials, in accordance with Puttkamer's decree
and in order to avoid censure, were obliged to 'represent the policy of
the government.' And, like the prefects in France, they were used as an
official apparatus for influencing elections. Most of the 'political' officials
of the German system — in contrast to other countries — were equally
qualified in so far as access to these offices required a university educa-
tion, special examinations, and special preparatory service. In Germany,
only the heads of the poHtical apparatus, the ministers, lack this specific
characteristic of modern civil service. Even under the old regime, one
could be the Prussian minister of education without ever having at-
tended an institution of higher learning; whereas one could become
V ortragender Rat^ in principle, only on the basis of a prescribed exami-
nation. The specialist and trained Dezernent^ and* V ortragender Rat
were of course infinitely better informed about the real technical prob-
lems of the division than was their respective chief — for instance, under
Althofl in the Prussian ministry of education. In England it was not
different. Consequently, in all routine demands the divisional head was
more powerful than the minister, which was not without reason. The
minister was simply the representative of the political power constella-
tion; he had to represent these powerful political staffs and he had to
take measure of the proposals of his subordinate expert officials or give
them directive orders of a political nature.
After all, things in a private economic enterprise are quite similar: the
real 'sovereign,' the assembled shareholders, is just as little influential in
the business management as is a 'people' ruled by expert officials. And
the personages who decide the policy of the enterprise, the bank-con-
trolled 'directorate,' give only directive economic orders and select persons
for the management without themselves being capable of technically
directing the enterprise. Thus the present structure of the revolutionary
state signifies nothing new in principle. It places power over the admin-
istration into the hands of absolute dilettantes, who, by virtue of their
92 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
control o£ the machine-guns, would hke to use expert officials only as
executive heads and hands. The difficulties of the present system lie else-
where than here, but today these difficulties shall not concern us. We
shall, rather, ask for the typical peculiarity of the professional politicians,
of the 'leaders' as well as their followings. Their nature has changed and
today varies greatly from one case to another.
We have seen that in the past 'professional politicians' developed
through the struggle of the princes with the estates and that they served
the princes. Let us briefly review the major types of these professional
politicians.
Confronting the estates, the prince found support in politically exploit-
able strata outside of the order of the estates. Among the latter, there was,
first, the clergy in Western and Eastern India, in Buddhist China and
Japan, and in Lamaist Mongolia, just as in the Christian territories of the
Middle Ages. The clergy were technically useful because they were
literate. The importation of Brahmins, Buddhist priests. Lamas, and the
employment of bishops and priests as political counselors, occurred with
an eye to obtaining administrative forces who could read and write and
who could be used in the struggle of the emperor, prince, or Khan
against the aristocracy. Unlike the vassal who confronted his overlord,
the cleric, especially the celibate cleric, stood outside the machinery of
normal political and economic interests and was not tempted by the
struggle for political power, for himself or for his descendants. By virtue
of his own status, the cleric was 'separated' from the managerial imple-
ments of princely administration.
The humanistically educated literati comprised a second such stratum.
There was a time when one learned to produce Latin speeches and
Greek verses in order to become a political adviser to a prince and,
above all things, to become a memorialist. This was the time of the first
flowering of the humanist schools and of the princely foundations of
professorships for 'poetics.' This was for us a transitory epoch, which has
had a quite persistent influence upon our educational system, yet no
deeper results politically. In East Asia, it has been different. The Chinese
mandarin is, or rather originally was, what the humanist of our Renais-
sance period approximately was: a literator humanistically trained and
tested in the language monuments of the remote past. When you read
the diaries of Li Hung Chang you will find that he is most proud of
having composed poems and of being a good calligrapher. This stratum,
with its conventions developed and modeled after Chinese Antiquity, has
POLITICS AS A VOCATION 93
determined the whole destiny of China; and perhaps our fate would have
been similar if the humanists in their time had had the slightest chance
of gaining a similar influence.
The third stratum was the court nobility. After the princes had suc-
ceeded in expropriating political power from the nobility as an estate,
they drew the nobles to the court and used them in their political and
diplomatic service. The transformation of our educational system in
the seventeenth century was partly determined by the fact that court
nobles as professional politicians displaced the humanist literati and
entered the service of the princes.
The fourth category was a specifically English institution. A patrician
stratum developed there which was comprised of the petty nobility and
the urban rentiers; technically they are called the 'gentry.' The English
gentry represents a stratum that the prince originally attracted in order
to counter the barons. The prince placed the stratum in possession of the
offices of 'self-government,' and later he himself became increasingly
dependent upon them. The gentry maintained the possession of all offices
of local administration by taking them over without compensation in the
interest of their own social power. The gentry has saved England from
the bureaucratization which has been the fate of all continental states.
A fifth stratum, the university-trained jurist, is peculiar to the Occi-
dent, especially to the European continent, and has been of decisive
significance for the Continent's whole political structure. The tremendous
after-efFect of Roman law, as transformed by the late Roman bureau-
cratic state, stands out in nothing more clearly than the fact that every-
where the revolution of political management in the direction of the
evolving rational state has been borne by trained jurists. This also oc-
curred in England, although there the great national guilds of jurists
hindered the reception of Roman law. There is no analogy to this process
to be found in any area of the world.
All beginnings of rational juristic thinking in the Indian Mimamsa
School and all further cultivation of the ancient juristic thinking in
Islam have been unable to prevent the idea of rational law from being
overgrown by theological forms of thought. Above all, legal trial pro-
cedure has not been fully rationalized in the cases of India and of
Islamism. Such rationalization has been brought about on the Conti-
nent only through the borrowing of ancient Roman jurisprudence by
the Italian jurists. Roman jurisprudence is the product of a political
structure arising from the city state to world domination — a product
94 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
of quite unique nature. The usus modernus of the late medieval pandect
jurists and canonists was blended with theories of natural law, which
were born from juristic and Christian thought and which were later
secularized. This juristic rationalism has had its great representatives
among the ItaHan Podesta, the French crown jurists (who created the
formal means for the undermining of the rule of seigneurs by royal
power), among the canonists and the theologians of the ecclesiastic
councils (thinking in terms of natural law), among the court jurists
and academic judges of the continental princes, among the Netherland
teachers of natural law and the monarchomachists, among the English
crown and parliamentary jurists, among the noblesse de robe of the
French Parliament, and finally, among the lawyers of the age of the
French Revolution.
Without this juristic rationalism, the rise of the absolute state is just
as little imaginable as is the Revolution. If you look through the
remonstrances of the French Parliaments or through the cahiers of the
French Estates-General from the sixteenth century to the year 1789,
you will find everywhere the spirit of the jurists. And if you go over
the occupational composition of the members of the French Assembly,
you will find there — although the members of the Assembly were elected
through equal franchise — a single proletarian, very few bourgeois enter-
prisers, but jurists of all sorts, en fnasse. Without them, the specific men-
tality that inspired these radical intellectuals and their projects would be
quite inconceivable. Since the French Revolution, the modern lawyer
and modern democracy absolutely belong together. And lawyers, in our
sense of an independent status group, also exist only in the Occident.
They have developed since the Middle Ages from the Fiirsprech of the
formalistic Germanic legal procedure under the impact of the rationali-
zation of the trial.
The significance of the lawyer in Occidental politics since the rise
of parties is not accidental. The management of politics through parties
simply means management through interest groups. We shall soon see
what that means. The craft of the trained lawyer is to plead effectively
the cause of interested clients. In this, the lawyer is superior to any 'offi-
cial,' as the superiority of enemy propaganda [Allied propaganda 1914-18]
could teach us. Certainly he can advocate and win a cause supported by
logically weak arguments and one which, in this sense, is a 'weak' cause.
Yet he wins it because technically he makes a 'strong case' for it. But
only the lawyer successfully pleads a cause that can be supported by logi-
POLITICS AS A VOCATION 95
cally strong arguments, thus handling a 'good' cause 'well.' All too often
the civil servant as a politician turns a cause that is good in every sense
into a 'weak' cause, through technically 'weak' pleading. This is what we
have had to experience. To an outstanding degree, politics today is in
fact conducted in public by means of the spoken or written word. To
weigh the effect of the word properly falls within the range of the law-
yer's tasks; but not at all into that of the civil servant. The latter is no
demagogue, nor is it his purpose to be one. If he nevertheless tries to
become a demagogue, he usually becomes a very poor one.
According to his proper vocation, the genuine official — and this is
decisive for the evaluation of our former regime — will not engage in
politics. Rather, he should engage in impartial 'administration.' This
also holds for the so-called 'political' administrator, at least officially,
in so far as the raison d'etat, that is, the vital interests of the ruling
order, are not in question. Sine ira et studio, 'without scorn and bias,'
he shall administer his office. Hence, he shall not do precisely what the
politician, the leader as well as his following, must always and neces-
sarily do, namely, fight.
To take a stand, to be passionate — ira et studium — is the politician's
element, and above all the element of the political leader. His conduct
is subject to quite a different, indeed, exactly the opposite, principle
of responsibility from that of the civil servant. The honor of the civil
servant is vested in his ability to execute conscientiously the order of the
superior authorities, exactly as if the order agreed with his own con-
viction. This holds even if the order appears wrong to him and if,
despite the civil servant's remonstrances, the authority insists on the
order. Without this moral discipline and self-denial, in the highest sense,
the whole apparatus would fall to pieces. The honor of the political
leader, of the leading statesman, however, lies precisely in an exclusive
personal responsibility for what he does, a responsibility he cannot and
must not reject or transfer. It is in the nature of officials of high moral
standing to be poor politicians, and above all, in the political sense of
the word, to be irresponsible politicians. In this sense, they are poli-
ticians of low moral standing, such as we unfortunately have had again
and again in leading positions. This is what we have called Beamtenherr-
schajt [civil-service rule], and truly no spot soils the honor of our offi-
cialdom if we reveal what is politically wrong with the system from the
standpoint of success. But let us return once more to the types of political
figures.
96 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
Since the time of the constitutional state, and definitely since democ-
racy has been established, the 'demagogue' has been the typical political
leader in the Occident. The distasteful flavor of the word must not
make us forget that not Cleon but Pericles was the first to bear the
name of demagogue. In contrast to the offices of ancient democracy that
were filled by lot, Pericles led the sovereign Ecclesia of the demos of
Athens as a supreme strategist holding the only elective office or without
holding any office at all. Modern demagoguery also makes use of
oratory, even to a tremendous extent, if one considers the election
speeches a modern candidate has to deliver. But the use of the printed
word is more enduring. The political publicist, and above all the
journalist, is nowadays the most important representative of the dema-
gogic species.
Within the limits of this lecture, it is quite impossible even to sketch
the sociology of modern political journalism, which in every respect con-
stitutes a chapter in itself. Certainly, only a few things concerning it are
in place here. In common with all demagogues and, by the way, with the
lawyer (and the artist), the journalist shares the fate of lacking a fixed
social classification. At least, this is the case on the Continent, in contrast
to the English, and, by the way, also to former conditions in Prussia.
The journalist belongs to a sort of pariah caste, which is always estimated
by 'society' in terms of its ethically lowest representative. Hence, the
strangest notions about journalists and their work are abroad. Not every-
body reahzes that a really good journalistic accomplishment requires at
least as much 'genius' * as any scholarly accomplishment, especially be-
cause of the necessity of producing at once and 'on order,' and because
of the necessity of being effective, to be sure, under quite different condi-
tions of production. It is almost never acknowledged that the responsi-
bility of the journalist is far greater, and that the sense of responsibility
of every honorable journalist is, on the average, not a bit lower than
that of the scholar, but rather, as the war has shown, higher. This is be-
cause, in the very nature of the case, irresponsible journalistic accom-
plishments and their often terrible effects are remembered.
Nobody believes that the discretion of any able journalist ranks above
the average of other people, and yet that is the case. The quite incompa-
rably graver temptations, and the other conditions that accompany jour-
nalistic work at the present time, produce those results which have con-
ditioned the public to regard the press with a mixture of disdain and
pitiful cowardice. Today we cannot discuss what is to be done. Here we
POLITICS AS A VOCATION 97
are interested in the question of the occupational destiny of the poHtical
journahst and of his chance to attain a position of poUtical leadership.
Thus far, the journalist has had favorable chances only in the Social
Democratic party. Within the party, editorial positions have been pre-
dominantly in the nature of official positions, but editorial positions have
not been the basis for positions of leadership.
In the bourgeois parties, on the whole, the chances for ascent to politi-
cal power along this avenue have rather become worse, as compared
with those of the previous generation. Naturally every politician of con-
sequence has needed influence over the press and hence has needed
relations with the press. But that party leaders would emerge from the
ranks of the press has been an absolute exception and one should not
have expected it. The reason for this lies in the strongly increased 'indis-
pensability' of the journahst, above all, of the propertyless and hence
professionally bound journalist, an indispensability which is determined
by the tremendously increased intensity and tempo of journalistic oper-
ations. The necessity of gaining one's livelihood by the writing of daily
or at least weekly articles is like lead on the feet of the politicians. I
know of cases in which natural leaders have been permanently paralyzed
in their ascent to power, externally and above all internally, by this com-
pulsion. The relations of the press to the ruling powers in the state and
in the parties, under the old regime [of the Kaiser], were as detrimental
as they could be to the level of journalism; but that is a chapter in itself.
These conditions w^ere different in the countries of our opponents [the
Allies]. But there also, and for all modern states, apparently the jour-
nahst worker gains less and less as the capitalist lord of the press, of the
sort of 'Lord' Northcliffe, for instance, gains more and more political
influence.
Thus far, however, our great capitalist newspaper concerns, which at-
tained control, especially over the 'chain newspapers,' with 'want ads,'
have been regularly and typically the breeders of political indifference.
For no profits could be made in an independent policy; especially no
profitable benevolence of the politically dominant powers could be ob-
tained. The advertising business is also the avenue along which, during
the war, the attempt was made to influence the press politically in a grand
style — an attempt which apparently it is regarded as desirable to continue
now. Although one may expect the great papers to escape this pressure,
the situation of the small ones will be far more difficult. In any case, for
the time being, the journalist career is not among us, a normal avenue
98 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
for the ascent of political leaders, whatever attraction journalism may
otherwise have and whatever measure of influence, range of activity, and
especially political responsibility it may yield. One has to wait and see.
Perhaps journalism does not have this function any longer, or perhaps
journalism does not yet have it. Whether the renunciation of the principle
of anonymity would mean a change in this is difficult to say. Some jour-
nalists— ^not all — believe in dropping principled anonymity. What we
have experieiictd during the war in the German press, and in the
'management' of newspapers by especially hired personages and talented
writers who always expressly figured under their names, has unfortu-
nately shown, in some of the better known cases, that an increased aware-
ness of responsibility is not so certain to be bred as might be believed.
Some of the papers were, without regard to party, precisely the notoriously
worst boulevard sheets; by dropping anonymity they strove for and at-
tained greater sales. The publishers as well as the journalists of sensation-
alism have gained fortunes but certainly not honor. Nothing is here
being said against the principle of promoting sales; the question is indeed
an intricate one, and the phenomenon of irresponsible sensationaUsm does
not hold in general. But thus far, sensationalism has not been the road to
genuine leadership or to the responsible management of politics. How
conditions will further develop remains to be seen. Yet the journalist
career remains under all circumstances one of the most important ave-
nues of professional political activity. It is not a road for everybody, least
of all for weak characters, especially for people who can maintain their
inner balance only with a secure status position. If the life of a young
scholar is a gamble, still he is walled in by firm status conventions, which
prevent him from slipping. But the journalist's life is an absolute gamble
in every respect and under conditions that test one's inner security in a
way that scarcely occurs in any other situation. The often bitter experi-
ences in occupational life are perhaps not even the worst. The inner
demands that are directed precisely at the successful journalist are
especially difficult. It is, indeed, no small matter to frequent the salons
of the powerful on this earth on a seemingly equal footing and often to
be flattered by all because one is feared, yet knowing all the time that
having hardly closed the door the host has perhaps to justify before his
guests his association with the 'scavengers from the press.' Moreover, it
is no small matter that one must express oneself promptly and con-
vincingly about this and that, on all conceivable problems of life — what-
ever the 'market' happens to demand — and this without becoming abso-
POLITICS AS A VOCATION 99
lutely shallow and above all without losing one's dignity by baring
oneself, a thing which has merciless results. It is not astonishing that
there are many journalists who have become human failures and worth-
less men. Rather, it is astonishing that, despite all this, this very stratum
includes such a great number of valuable and quite genuine men, a fact
that outsiders would not so easily guess.
If the journalist as a type of professional politician harks back to a
rather considerable past, the figure of the party official belongs only to
the development of the last decades and, in part, only to recent years. In
order to comprehend the position of this figure in historical evolution,
we shall have to turn to a consideration of parties and party organiza-
tions.
In all political associations which are somehow extensive, that is, asso-
ciations going beyond the sphere and range of the tasks of small rural
districts where power-holders are periodically elected, political organiza-
tion is necessarily managed by men interested in the management of
politics. This is to say that a relatively small number of men are pri-
marily interested in political life and hence interested in sharing political
power. They provide themselves with a following through free recruit-
ment, present themselves or their proteges as candidates for election, col-
lect the financial means, and go out for vote-grabbing. It is unimagi-
nable how in large associations elections could function at all without
this managerial pattern. In practice this means the division of the citizens
with the right to vote into politically active and politically passive ele-
ments. This difference is based on voluntary attitudes, hence it cannot be
abolished through measures like obligatory voting, or 'occupational status
group' representation, or similar measures that are expressly or actually
directed against this state of affairs and the rule of professional politicians.
The active leadership and their freely recruited following are the neces-
sary elements in the life of any party. The following, and through it
the passive electorate, are necessary for the election of the leader. But the
structure of parties varies. For instance, the 'parties' of the medieval
cities, such as those of the Guelfs and the Ghibellines, were purely per-
sonal foUowings. If one considers various things about these medieval
parties, one is reminded of Bolshevism and its Soviets. Consider the
Statuta della perta Guelja, the confiscations of the Nobili's estates — which
originally meant all those families who lived a chivalrous life and who
thus qualified for fiefs — consider the exclusion from office-holding and
the denial of the right to vote, the inter-local party committees, the
100 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
Strictly military organizations and the premiums for informers. Then
consider Bolshevism with its strictly sieved military and, in Russia espe-
cially, informer organizations, the disarmament and denial of the politi-
cal rights of the 'bourgeois,' that is, of the entrepreneur, trader, rentier,
clergyman, descendants of the dynasty, police agents, as well as the
confiscation policy.
This analogy is still more striking when one considers that, on the one
hand, the military organization of the medieval party constituted a pure
army of knights organized on the basis of the registered feudal estates
and that nobles occupied almost all leading positions, and, on the other
hand, that the Soviets have preserved, or rather reintroduced, the highly
paid enterpriser, the group wage, the Taylor system, military and work-
shop discipline, and a search for foreign capital. Hence, in a word, the
Soviets have had to accept again absolutely all the things that Bolshevism
had been fighting as bourgeois class institutions. They have had to do
this in order to keep the state and the economy going at all. Moreover,
the Soviets have reinstituted the agents of the former Ochrana [Tsarist
Secret Police] as the main instrument of their state power. But here we
do not have to deal with such organizations for violence, but rather
with professional politicians who strive for power through sober and
'peaceful' party campaigns in the market of election votes.
Parties, in the sense usual with us, were at first, for instance in Eng-
land, pure followings of the aristocracy. If, for any reason whatever, a
peer changed his party, everybody dependent upon him likewise changed.
Up to the Reform Bill [of 1832], the great noble families and, last
but not least, the king controlled the patronage of an immense number
of election boroughs. Close to these aristocratic parties were the parties of
notables, which develop everywhere with the rising power of the bour-
geois. Under the spiritual leadership of the typical intellectual strata of
the Occident, the propertied and cultured circles differentiated themselves
into parties and followed them. These parties were formed partly accord-
ing to class interest, partly according to family traditions, and partly for
ideological reasons. Clergymen, teachers, professors, lawyers, doctors,
apothecaries, prosperous farmers, manufacturers — in England the whole
stratum that considered itself as belonging to the class of gentlemen —
formed, at first, occasional associations at most local political clubs. In
times of unrest the petty bourgeoisie raised its voice, and once in a while
the proletariat, if leaders arose who, however, as a rule did not stem from
their midst. In this phase, parties organized as permanent associations
POLITICS AS A VOCATION lOI
between localities do not yet exist in the open country. Only the parlia-
mentary delegates create the cohesion; and the local notables are de-
cisive for the selection of candidates. The election programs originate
partly in the election appeals of the candidates and partly in the meetings
of the notables; or, they originate as resolutions of the parliamentary
party. Leadership of the clubs is an avocation and an honorific pursuit,
as demanded by the occasion.
Where clubs are absent (as is mostly the case), the quite formless
management of pohtics in normal times lies in the hands of the few
people constantly interested in it. Only the journalist is a paid profes-
sional politician; only the management of the newspaper is a continuous
political organization. Besides the newspaper, there is only the parlia-
mentary session. The parliamentary delegates and the parliamentary
party leaders know to which local notables one turns if a political action
seems desirable. But permanent associations of the parties exist only in
the large cities with moderate contributions of the members and periodi-
cal conferences and public meetings where the delegate gives account
of the parliamentary activities. The party is alive only during election
periods.
The members of parliament are interested in the possibility of inter-
local electoral compromises, in vigorous and unified programs endorsed by
broad circles and in a unified agitation throughout the country. In general
these interests form the driving force of a party organization which be-
comes more and more strict. In principle, however, the nature of a party
apparatus as an association of notables remains unchanged. This is so,
even though a network of local party affiliations and agents is spread
over the whole country, including middle-sized cities. A member of the
parhamentary party acts as the leader of the central party office and main-
tains constant correspondence with the local organizations. Outside of
the central bureau, paid officials are still absent; thoroughly 'respectable'
people head the local organizations for the sake of the deference which
they enjoy anyway. They form the extra-parliamentary 'notables' who
exert influence alongside the stratum of poHtical notables who happen
to sit in parliament. However, the party correspondence, edited by the
party, increasingly provides intellectual nourishment for the press and for
the local meetings. Regular contributions of the members become indis-
pensable; a part of these must cover the expenses of headquarters.
Not so long ago most of the German party organizations were still
in this stage of development. In France, the first stage of party develop-
102 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
ment was, at least in part, still predominant, and the organization of the
members of parliament was quite unstable. In the open country, we find
a small number of local notables and programs drafted by the candidates
or set up for them by their patrons in specific campaigns for office. To
be sure, these platforms constitute more or less local adaptations to the
resolutions and programs of the members of parliament. This system was
only partially punctured. The number of full-time professional politicians
was small, consisting in the main of the elected deputies, the few em-
ployees of headquarters, and the journalists. In France, the system has
also included those job hunters who held 'political office' or, at the mo-
ment, strove for one. Politics was formally and by far predominantly
an avocation. The number of delegates qualifying for ministerial office
was also very restricted and, because of their position as notables, so was
the number of election candidates.
However, the number of those who indirectly had a stake in the man-
agement of politics, especially a material one, was very large. For, all
administrative measures of a ministerial department, and especially all
decisions in matters of personnel, were made partly with a view to their
influence upon electoral chances. The realization of each and every kind
of wish was sought through the local delegate's mediation. For better or
for worse the minister had to lend his ear to this delegate, especially
if the delegate belonged to the minister's majority. Hence everybody
strove for such influence. The single deputy controlled the patronage
of office and, in general, any kind of patronage in his election district.
In order to be re-elected the deputy, in turn, maintained connections
with the local notables.
Now then, the most modern forms of party organizations stand in
sharp contrast to this idyllic state in which circles of notables and, above
all, members of parliament rule. These modern forms are the children
of democracy, of mass franchise, of the necessity to woo and organize
the masses, and develop the utmost unity of direction and the strictest
discipline. The rule of notables and guidance by members of parliament
ceases. 'Professional' politicians outside the parliaments take the organ-
ization in hand. They do so either as 'entrepreneurs' — the American boss
and the English election agent are, in fact, such entrepreneurs — or as
officials with a fixed salary. Formally, a fargoing democratization takes
place. The parliamentary party no longer creates the authoritative pro-
grams, and the local notables no longer decide the selection of candidates.
Rather assemblies of the organized party members select the candidates
POLITICS AS A VOCATION IO3
and delegate members to the assemblies o£ a higher order. Possibly there
are several such conventions leading up to the national convention of
the party. Naturally power actually rests in the hands of those who,
within the organization, handle the work continuously. Otherwise, power
rests in the hands of those on whom the organization in its processes
depends financially or personally — for instance, on the Maecenases or
the directors of powerful political clubs of interested persons (Tammany
Hall). It is decisive that this whole apparatus of people — characteristically
called a 'machine' in Anglo-Saxon countries — or rather those who direct
the machine, keep the members of the parliament in check. They are in
a position to impose their will to a rather far-reaching extent, and that is
of special significance for the selection of the party leader. The man
whom the machine follows now becomes the leader, even over the head
of the parliamentary party. In other words, the creation of such machines
signifies the advent of plebiscitarian democracy.
The party following, above all the party official and party entrepre-
neur, naturally expect personal compensation from the victory of their
leader — ^that is, offices or other advantages. It is decisive that they expect
such advantages from their leader and not merely from the individual
member of parliament. They expect that the demagogic effect of the
leader's personality during the election fight of the party will increase
votes and mandates and thereby power, and, thereby, as far as possible,
will extend opportunities to their followers to find the compensation for
which they hope. Ideally, one of their mainsprings is the satisfaction of
working with loyal personal devotion for a man, and not merely for an
abstract program of a party consisting of mediocrities. In this respect, the
'charismatic' element of all leadership is at work in the party system.
In very different degrees this system made headway, although it was
in constant, latent struggle with local notables and the members of par-
liament who wrangled for influence. This was the case in the bourgeois
parties, first, in the United States, and, then, in the Social Democratic
party, especially of Germany. Constant setbacks occur as soon as no gen-
erally recognized leader exists, and, even when he is found, concessions of
all sorts must be made to the vanity and the personal interest of the party
notables. The machine may also be brought under the domination of the
party officials in whose hands the regular business rests. According to
the view of some Social Democratic circles, their party had succumbed
to this 'bureaucratization.' But 'officials' submit relatively easily to a
leader's personality if it has a strong demagogic appeal. The material
104 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
and the ideal interests of the officials are intimately connected with
the effects of party power which are expected from the leader's appeal,
and besides, inwardly it is per se more satisfying to work for a leader.
The ascent of leaders is far more difficult where the notables, along
with the officials, control the party, as is usually the case in the bourgeois
parties. For ideally the notables make 'their way of life' out of the
petty chairmanships or committee memberships they hold. Resentment
against the demagogue as a homo nouns, the conviction of the superi-
ority of political party 'experience' (which, as a matter of fact, actually
is of considerable importance), and the ideological concern for the
crumbling of the old party traditions — these factors determine the con-
duct of the notables. They can count on all the traditionalist elements
within the party. Above all, the rural but also the petty bourgeois
voter looks for the name of the notable familiar to him. He distrusts the
man who is unknown to him. However, once this man has become
successful, he clings to him the more unwaveringly. Let us now con-
sider, by some major examples, the struggle of the two structural forms
— of the notables and of the party — and especially let us consider the
ascendancy of the plebiscitarian form as described by Ostrogorsky.
First England: there until i(S68 the party organization was almost
purely an organization of notables. The Tories in the country found
support, for instance, from the Anglican parson, and from the school-
master, and above all from the large landlords of the respective county.
The Whigs found support mostly from such people as the nonconformist
preacher (when there was one), the postmaster, the blacksmith, the tailor,
the ropemaker — that is, from such artisans who could disseminate political
influence because they could chat with people most frequently. In the
city the parties differed, partly according to economics, partly according
to religion, and partly simply according to the party opinions handed
down in the families. But always the notables were the pillars of the
political organization.
Above all these arrangements stood Parliament, the parties with the
cabinet, and the 'leader,' who was the chairman of the council of min-
isters or the leader of the opposition. This leader had beside him the
'whip' — the most important professional politician of the party organiza-
tion. Patronage of office was vested in the hands of the 'whip'; thus the
job hunter had to turn to him and he arranged an understanding with
the deputies of the individual election boroughs. A stratum of profes-
sional politicians gradually began to develop in the boroughs. At first
POLITICS AS A VOCATION IO5
the locally recruited agents were not paid; they occupied approximately
the same position as our Vertrauens manner.^ However, along with them,
a capitalist entrepreneurial type developed in the boroughs. This was the
'election agent,' whose existence was unavoidable under England's mod-
ern legislation which guaranteed fair elections.
This legislation aimed at controlling the campaign costs of elections
and sought to check the power of money by making it obligatory for
the candidate to state the costs of his campaign. For in England, the
candidate, besides straining his voice — far more so than was formerly
the case with us [in Germany] — enjoyed stretching his purse. The elec-
tion agent made the candidate pay a lump sum, which usually meant a
good deal for the agent. In the distribution of power in Parliament and
the country between the 'leader' and the party notables, the leader in
England used to hold a very eminent position. This position was based
on the compelling fact of making possible a grand, and thereby steady,
political strategy. Nevertheless the influence of the parliamentary party
and of party notables was still considerable.
That is about what the old party organization looked like. It was half
an affair of notables and half an entrepreneurial organization with
salaried employees. Since 1868, however, the 'caucus' system developed,
first for local elections in Birmingham, then all over the country. A
nonconformist parson and along with him Joseph Chamberlain brought
this system to life. The occasion for this development was the democrati-
zation of the franchise. In order to win the masses it became necessary
to call into being a tremendous apparatus of apparently democratic asso-
ciations. An electoral association had to be formed in every city district
to help keep the organization incessantly in motion and to bureaucratize
everything rigidly. Hence, hired and paid officials of the local electoral
committees increased numerically; and, on the whole, perhaps 10 per
cent of the voters were organized in these local committees. The elected
party managers had the right to co-opt others and were the formal bear-
ers of party politics. The driving force was the local circle, which was,
above all, composed of those interested in municipal politics — from which
the fattest material opportunities always spring. These local circles were
also first to call upon the world of finance. This newly emerging machine,
which was no longer led by members of Parliament, very soon had to
struggle with the previous power-holders, above all, with the 'whip.' Be-
ing supported by locally interested persons, the machine came out of the
fight so victoriously that the whip had to submit and compromise with
I06 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
the machine. The result was a centraHzation of all power in the hands
o£ the few and, ultimately, of the one person who stood at the top of the
party. The whole system had arisen in the Liberal party in connection
with Gladstone's ascent to power. What brought this machine to such
swift triumph over the notables was the fascination of Gladstone's 'grand'
demagogy, the firm belief of the masses in the ethical substance of his
policy, and, above all, their belief in the ethical character of his person-
ality. It soon became obvious that a Caesarist plebiscitarian element in
politics — the dictator of the battlefield of elections — had appeared on the
plain. In 1877 the caucus became active for the first time in national
elections, and with brilliant success, for the result was Disraeli's fall at
the height of his great achievements. In 1866, the machine was already
so completely oriented to the charismatic personality that when the ques-
tion of home rule was raised the whole apparatus from top to bottom
did not question whether it actually stood on Gladstone's ground; it
simply, on his word, fell in line with him: they said, Gladstone right or
wrong, we follow him. And thus the machine deserted its own creator,
Chamberlain.
Such machinery requires a considerable personnel. In England there
are about 2,000 persons who live directly off party politics. To be sure,
those who are active in politics purely as job seekers or as interested
persons are far more numerous, especially in municipal politics. In addi-
tion to economic opportunities, for the useful caucus politician, there are
the opportunities to satisfy his vanity. To become 'J-P-' or even 'M.P.' is,
of course, in line with the greatest (and normal) ambition; and such
people, who are of demonstrably good breeding, that is, 'gentlemen,' at-
tain their goal. The highest goal is, of course, a peerage, especially for
the great financial Maecenases. About 50 per cent of the finances of the
party depend on contributions of donors who remained anonymous.
Now then, what has been the effect of this whole system? Nowadays
the members of Parliament, with the exception of the few cabinet
members (and a few insurgents), are normally nothing better than well-
disciplined 'yes' men. With us, in the Reichstag, one used at least to
take care of one's private correspondence on his desk, thus indicating
that one was active in the weal of the country. Such gestures are not de-
manded in England; the member of Parliament must only vote, not
commit party treason. He must appear when the whips call him, and do
what the cabinet or the leader of the opposition orders. The caucus ma-
chine in the open country is almost completely unprincipled if a strong
POLITICS AS A VOCATION IO7
leader exists who has the machine absolutely in hand. Therewith the
plebiscitarian dictator actually stands above Parliament. He brings the
masses behind him by means of the machine and the members of ParUa-
ment are for him merely poHtical spoilsmen enrolled in his following.
How does the selection of these strong leaders take place? First, in
terms of what abihty are they selected? Next to the qualities of will —
decisive all over the world — naturally the force of demagogic speech is
above all decisive. Its character has changed since the time speakers like
Cobden addressed themselves to the intellect, and Gladstone who mas-
tered the technique of apparently 'letting sober facts speak for themselves.'
At the present time often purely emotional means are used — the means
the Salvation Army also exploits in order to set the masses in motion.
One may call the existing state of affairs a 'dictatorship resting on the
exploitation of mass emotionality.' Yet, the highly developed system of
committee work in the English Parliament makes it possible and com-
pelling for every politician who counts on a share in leadership to co-
operate in committee work. All important ministers of recent decades have
this very real and effective work-training as a background. The practice
of committee reports and public criticism of these deliberations is a con-
dition for training, for really selecting leaders and eliminating mere
demagogues.
Thus it is in England. The caucus system there, however, has been
a weak form, compared with the American party organization, which
brought the plebiscitarian principle to an especially early and an espe-
cially pure expression.
According to Washington's idea, America was to be a commonwealth
administered by gentlemen.' In his time, in America, a gentleman was
also a landlord, or a man with a college education — this was the case at
first. In the beginning, when parties began to organize, the members of
the House of Representatives claimed to be leaders, just as in England at
the time when notables ruled. The party organization was quite loose
and continued to be until 1824. In some communities, where modern de-
velopment first took place, the party machine was in the making even
before the eighteen-twenties. But when Andrew Jackson was first elected
President — the election of the western farmers' candidate — the old tradi-
tions were overthrown. Formal party leadership by leading members of
Congress came to an end soon after 1840, when the great parliamen-
tarians, Calhoun and Webster, retired from political life because Congress
had lost almost all of its power to the party machine in the open coun-
I08 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
try. That the plebiscitarian 'machine' has developed so early in America
is due to the fact that there, and there alone, the executive — this is what
mattered — the chief of office-patronage, was a President elected by pleb-
iscite. By virtue of the 'separation of powers' he was almost inde-
pendent of parliament in his conduct of office. Hence, as the price of
victory, the true booty object of the office-prebend was held out pre-
cisely at the presidential election. Through Andrew Jackson the 'spoils
system' was quite systematically raised to a principle and the conclusions
were drawn.
What does this spoils system, the turning over of federal offices to the
following of the victorious candidate, mean for the party formations of
today? It means that quite unprincipled parties oppose one another; they
are purely organizations of job hunters drafting their changing platforms
according to the chances of vote-grabbing, changing their colors to a de-
gree which, despite all analogies, is not yet to be found elsewhere. The
parties are simply and absolutely fashioned for the election campaign
that is most important for office patronage: the fight for the presidency
and for the governorships of the separate states. Platforms and candidates
are selected at the national conventions of the parties without interven-
tion by congressmen. Hence they emerge from party conventions, the
delegates of which are formally, very democratically elected. These dele-
gates are determined by meetings of other delegates, who, in turn, owe
their mandate to the 'primaries,' the assembling of the direct voters of
the party. In the primaries the delegates are already elected in the name
of the candidate for the nation's leadership. Within the parties the most
embittered fight rages about the question of 'nomination.' After all,
300,000 to 400,000 official appointments lie in the hands of the President,
appointments which are executed by him only with the approval of the
senators from the separate states. Hence the senators are powerful politi-
cians. By comparison, however, the House of Representatives is, politi-
cally, quite impotent, because patronage of office is removed from it and
because the cabinet members, simply assistants to the President, can con-
duct office apart from the confidence or lack of confidence of the people.
The President, who is legitimatized by the people, confronts everybody,
even Congress; this is a result of 'the separation of powers.'
In America, the spoils system, supported in this fashion, has been
technically possible because American culture with its youth could afford
purely dilettante management. With 300,000 to 400,000 such party men
who have no qualifications to their credit other than the fact of having
POLITICS AS A VOCATION IO9
performed good services for their party, this state of affairs of course
could not exist without enormous evils. A corruption and wastefulness
second to none could be tolerated only by a country with as yet unlimited
economic opportunities.
Now then, the boss is the figure who appears in the picture of this
system of the plebiscitarian party machine. Who is the boss? He is a
political capitalist entrepreneur who on his own account and at his own
risk provides votes. He may have established his first relations as a
lawyer or a saloonkeeper or as a proprietor of similar establishments, or
perhaps as a creditor. From here he spins his threads out until he is
able to 'control' a certain number of votes. When he has come this far
he establishes contact with the neighboring bosses, and through zeal,
skill, and above all discretion, he attracts the attention of those who have
already further advanced in the career, and then he climbs. The boss is
indispensable to the organization of the party and the organization is cen-
tralized in his hands. He substantially provides the financial means. How
does he get them ? Well, partly by the contributions of the members, and
especially by taxing the salaries of those officials who came into office
through him and his party. Furthermore, there are bribes and tips. He
who wishes to trespass with impunity one of the many laws needs the
boss's connivance and must pay for it; or else he will get into trouble.
But this alone is not enough to accumulate the necessary capital for
political enterprises. The boss is indispensable as the direct recipient of
the money of great financial magnates, who would not entrust their
money for election purposes to a paid party official, or to anyone else
giving public account of his affairs. The boss, with his judicious discre-
tion in financial matters, is the natural man for those capitalist circles
who finance the election. The typical boss is an absolutely sober man. He
does not seek social honor; the 'professional' is despised in 'respectable
society,' He seeks power alone, power as a source of money, but also
power for power's sake. In contrast to the English leader, the American
boss works in the dark. He is not heard speaking in public; he suggests
to the speakers what they must say in expedient fashion. He himself,
however, keeps silent. As a rule he acfepts no office, except that of senator.
For, since the senators, by virtue of the Constitution, participate in
office patronage, the leading bosses often sit in person in this body. The
distribution of offices is carried out, in the first place, according to services
done for the party. But, also, auctioning offices on financial bids often
occurs and there are certain rates for individual offices; hence, a system
no SCIENCE AND POLITICS
of selling offices exists which, after all, has often been known also to
the monarchies, the church-state included, of the seventeenth and eight-
eenth centuries.
The boss has no firm political 'principles'; he is completely unprin-
cipled in attitude and asks merely: What will capture votes? Frequently
he is a rather poorly educated man. But as a rule he leads an inoffen-
sive and correct private life. In his political morals, however, he naturally
adjusts to the average ethical standards of political conduct, as a great
many of us also may have done during the hoarding period in the field of
economic ethics.*^ That as a 'professional' politician the boss is socially de-
spised does not worry him. That he personally does not attain high federal
offices, and does not wish to do so, has the frequent advantage that
extra-party intellects, thus notables, may come into candidacy when the
bosses believe they will have great appeal value at the polls. Hence the
same old party notables do not run again and again, as is the case in Ger-
many. Thus the structure of these unprincipled parties with their so-
cially despised power-holders has aided able men to attain the presidency
— men who with us never would have come to the top. To be sure, the
bosses resist an outsider who might jeopardize their sources of money
and power. Yet in the competitive struggle to win the favor of the vot-
ers, the bosses frequently have had to condescend and accept candidates
known to be opponents of corruption.
Thus there exists a strong capitalist party machine, strictly and thor-
oughly organized from top to bottom, and supported by clubs of ex-
traordinary stability. These clubs, such as Tammany Hall, are like
Knight orders. They seek profits solely through political control, espe-
cially of the municipal government, which is the most important object
of booty. This structure of party life was made possible by the high de-
gree of democracy in the United States — a 'New Country.' This connec-
tion, in turn, is the basis for the fact that the system is gradually dying
out. America can no longer be governed only by dilettantes. Scarcely fif-
teen years ago, when American workers were asked why they allowed
themselves to be governed by politicians whom they admitted they de-
spised, the answer was: 'We prefer having people in office whom we can
spit upon, rather than a caste of officials who spit upon us, as is the case
with you.' This was the old point of view of American 'democracy.' Even
then, the socialists had entirely different ideas and now the situation is
no longer bearable. The dilettante administration does not suffice and
the Civil Service Reform establishes an ever-increasing number of posi-
POLITICS AS A VOCATION III
tions for life with pension rights. The reform works out in such a way
that university-trained officials, just as incorruptible and quite as capable
as our officials, get into office. Even now about 100,000 offices have ceased
being objects of booty to be turned over after elections. Rather, the
offices quahfy their holders for pensions, and are based upon tested quali-
fications. The spoils system will thus gradually recede into the back-
ground and the nature of party leadership is then likely to be transformed
also — but as yet, we do not know in what way.
In Germany, until now, the decisive conditions of political manage-
ment have been in essence as follows:
First, the parliaments have been impotent. The result has been that
no man with the qualities of a leader would enter Parhament perma-
nently. If one wished to enter Parliament, what could one achieve there ?
When a chancellery position was open, one could tell the administrative
chief: 'I have a very able man in my election district who would be suit-
able; take him.' And he would have concurred with pleasure; but that
was about all that a German member of Parliament could do to satisfy
his instincts for power — if he possessed any.
To this must be added the tremendous importance of the trained ex-
pert officialdom in Germany. This factor determined the impotence of
Parhament. Our officialdom was second to none in the world. This im-
portance of the officialdom was accompanied by the fact that the officials
claimed not only official positions but also cabinet positions for them-
selves. In the Bavarian state legislature, when the introduction of parlia-
mentary government was debated last year, it was said that if members
of the legislature were to be placed in cabinet positions talented people
would no longer seek official careers. Moreover, the civil-service adminis-
tration systematically escaped such control as is signified by the English
committee discussions. The administration thus made it impossible for
parliaments — with a few exceptions — to train really useful administrative
chiefs from their own ranks.
A third factor is that in Germany, in contrast to America, we have had
parties with principled political views who have maintained that their
members, at least subjectively, represented bona-fide Weltanschauungen.
Now then, the two most important of these parties, the Catholic Centre
Party and the Social Democratic party, have, from their inceptions, been
minority parties and have meant to be minority parties. The leading circles
of the Centre party in the Reich have never concealed their opposition to
parliamentarian democracy, because of fear of remaining in the minority
112 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
and thus facing great difficulties in placing their job hunters in office as
they have done by exerting pressure on the government. The Social
Democratic party v^^as a principled minority party and a handicap to the
introduction of parliamentary government because the party did not
wish to stain itself by participating in the existing bourgeois political
order. The fact that both parties dissociated themselves from the parlia-
mentary system made parliamentary government impossible.
Considering all this, what then became of the professional politicians
in Germany? They have had no power, no responsibility, and could play
only a rather subordinate role as notables. In consequence, they have
been animated anew by the guild instincts, which are typical everywhere.
It has been impossible for a man who was not of their hue to climb
high in the circle of those notables who made their petty positions their
Hves. I could mention many names from every party, the Social Demo-
cratic party, of course, not excepted, that spell tragedies of political
careers because the persons had leadership qualities, and precisely because
of these qualities were not tolerated by the notables. All our parties have
taken this course of development and have become guilds of notables.
Bebel, for instance, was still a leader through temperament and purity
of character, however modest his intellect. The fact that he was a
martyr, that he never betrayed confidence in the eyes of the masses, re-
sulted in his having the masses absolutely behind him. There was no
power in the party that could have seriously challenged him. Such leader-
ship came to an end, after his death, and the rule of officials began.
Trade-union officials, party secretaries, and journalists came to the top.
The instincts of officialdom dominated the party — a highly respectable
officialdom, of rare respectability one may say, compared to conditions
in other countries, especially the often corruptible trade-union officials in
America. But the results of control by officialdom, which we discussed
above, also began in the party.
Since the eighteen-eighties the bourgeois parties have completely be-
come guilds of notables. To be sure, occasionally the parties had to
draw on extra-party intellects for advertising purposes, so that they could
say, 'We have such and such names.' So far as possible, they avoided
letting these names run for election; only when it was unavoidable and
the person insisted could he run for election. The same spirit prevailed
in Parliament. Our parliamentary parties were and are guilds. Every
speech delivered from the floor of the Reichstag is thoroughly censored
in the party before it is delivered. This is obvious from their unheard-of
POLITICS AS A VOCATION II3
boredom. Only he who is summoned to speak can have the word. One
can hardly conceive of a stronger contrast to the English, and also — for
quite opposite reasons — the French usage.
Now, in consequence of the enormous collapse, which is customarily
called the Revolution, perhaps a transformation is under way. Perhaps —
but not for certain. In the beginning there were new kinds of party ap-
paratuses emerging. First, there were amateur apparatuses. They are
especially often represented by students of the various universities, who
tell a man to whom they ascribe leadership qualities: we want to do the
necessary work for you; carry it out. Secondly, there are apparatuses of
businessmen. It happened that men to whom leadership qualities were
ascribed were approached by people willing to take over the propaganda,
at fixed rates for every vote. If you were to ask me honestly which of
these two apparatuses I think the more reliable, from the purely techni-
cal-political point of view, I believe I would prefer the latter. But both
apparatuses were fast-emerging bubbles, which swiftly vanished again.
The existing apparatuses transformed themselves, but they continued to
work. The phenomena are only symptoms of the fact that new appa-
ratuses would come about if there were only leaders. But even the
technical peculiarity of proportionate representation precluded their
ascendancy. Only a few dictators of the street crowds arose and fell again.
And only the following of a mob dictatorship is organized in a strictly
disciplined fashion: whence the power of these vanishing minorities.
Let us assume that all this were to change; then, after what has been
said above, it has to be clearly realized that the plebiscitarian leadership
of parties entails the 'soullessness' of the following, their intellectual pro-
letarianization, one might say. In order to be a useful apparatus, a ma-
chine in the American sense — undisturbed either by the vanity of no-
tables or pretensions to independent views — the following of such a leader
must obey him blindly. Lincoln's election was possible only through this
character of party organization, and with Gladstone, as mentioned be-
fore, the same happened in the caucus. This is simply the price paid
for guidance by leaders. However, there is only the choice between leader-
ship democracy with a 'machine' and leaderless democracy, namely, the
rule of professional politicians without a calling, without the inner
charismatic qualities that make a leader, and this means what the
party insurgents in the situation usually designate as 'the rule of the
clique.' For the time being, we in Germany have only the latter. For
the future, the permanence of this situation, at least in the Reich, is pri-
114 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
marily facilitated by the fact that the Bundesrat ^ will rise again and will
of necessity restrict the power of the Reichstag and therewith its sig-
nificance as a selective agency of leaders. Moreover, in its present form,
proportional representation is a typical phenomenon of leaderless democ-
racy. This is the case not only because it facilitates the horse-trading of
the notables for placement on the ticket, but also because in the future it
will give organized interest groups the possibility of compelling parties to
include their officials in the list of candidates, thus creating an unpolitical
Parliament in which genuine leadership finds no place. Only the President
of the Reich could become the safety-valve of the demand for leadership
if he were elected in a plebiscitarian way and not by Parliament. Lead-
ership on the basis of proved work could emerge and selection could
take place, especially if, in great municipalities, the plebiscitarian city-
manager were to appear on the scene with the right to organize his
bureaus independently. Such is the case in the U.S.A. whenever one
wishes to tackle corruption seriously. It requires a party organization
fashioned for such elections. But the very petty-boucgeois hostility of
all parties to leaders, the Social Democratic party certainly included,
leaves the future formation of parties and all these chances still com-
pletely in the dark.
rrherefore, today, one cannot yet see in any way how the manage-
ment of politics as a 'vocation' will shape itself. Even less can one see
along what avenue opportunities are opening to which political talents
can be put for satisfactory political tasks. He who by his material circum-
stances is compelled to live 'off' politics will almost always have to con-
sider the alternative positions of the journalist or the party official as the
typical direct avenues. Or, he must consider a position as representative
of interest groups — such as a trade union, a chamber of commerce, a farm
bureau,* a craft association,^ a labor board, an employer's association,
et cetera, or else a suitable municipal position. Nothing more than this
can be said about this external aspect: in common with the journalist,
the party official bears the odium of being declasse. 'Wage writer' or
'wage speaker' will unfortunately always resound in his ears, even
though the words remain unexpressed. He who is inwardly defenseless
and unable to find the proper answer for himself had.better stay away
from this career. For in any case, besides grave temptations, it is an
avenue that may constantly lead to disappointments. Now then, what
inner enjoyments can this career offer and what personal conditions are
presupposed for one who enters this avenue?
POLITICS AS A VOCATION II5
Well, first of all the career of politics grants a feeling of power. The
knowledge of influencing men, of participating in power over them,
and above all, the feeling of holding in one's hands a nerve fiber of his-
torically important events can elevate the professional politician above
everyday routine even when he is placed in formally modest positions.
But now the question for him is: Through what qualities can I hope to
do justice to this power (however narrowly circumscribed it may be in
the individual case) ? How can he hope to do justice to the responsi-
bility that power imposes upon him? With this we enter the field of
ethical questions, for that is where the problem belongs: What kind of a
man must one be if he is to be allowed to put his hand on the wheel
of history?
One can say that three pre-eminent qualities are decisive for the poli-
tician : passion, a feeling of responsibility, and a sense of proportion.
This means passion in the sense of matter-of-jactness, of passionate de-
votion to a 'cause,' to the god or demon who is its overlord. It is not
passion in the sense of that inner bearing which my late friend, Georg
Simmel, used to designate as 'sterile excitation,' and which was peculiar
especially to a certain type of Russian intellectual (by no means all of
them!). It is an excitation that plays so great a part with our intellectuals
in this carnival we decorate with the proud name of 'revolution.' It is a
'romanticism of the intellectually interesting,' running into emptiness
devoid of all feeling of objective responsibility.
To be sure, mere passion, however genuinely felt, is not enough. It
does not make a politician, unless passion as devotion to a 'cause' also
makes responsibility to this cause the guiding star of action. And for this,
a sense of proportion is needed. This is the decisive psychological quality
of the poHtician: his ability to let realities woric upon him with inner
concentration and calmness. Hence his -distance to thino-s and men. 'Lack
o
of distance' per se is one of the deadly sins of every politician. It is one
of those qualities the breeding of which will condemn the progeny of
our intellectuals to political incapacity. For the problem is simply how
can warm passion and a cool sense of proportion be forged together in
one and the same soul? Politics is made with the head, not with other
parts of the body or soul. And yet devotion to politics, if it is not to be
frivolous intellectual play but rather genuinely human conduct, can be
born and nourished from passion alone.- However, that firm taming of
the soul, which distinguishes the passionate politician and diflferentiates
him from the 'sterilely excited' and mere political dilettante, is possible
Il6 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
only through habituation to detachment in every sense of the word. The
'strength' of a pohtical 'personaHty' means, in the first place, the posses-
sion of these qualities of passion, responsibility, and proportion.
Therefore, daily and hourly, the politician inwardly has to overcome
a quite trivial and all-too-human enemy: a quite vulgar vanity, the
deadly enemy of all matter-of-fact devotion to a cause, and of all dis-
tance, in this case, of distance towards one's self.
Vanity is a very widespread quality and perhaps nobody is entirely
free from it. In academic and scholarly circles, vanity is a sort of occu-
pational disease, but precisely with the scholar, vanity — however disagree-
ably it may express itself — is relatively harmless; in the sense that as a
rule it does not disturb scientific enterprise. With the poHtician the case
is quite different. He works with the striving for power as an unavoid-
able means. Therefore, 'power instinct,' as is usually said, belongs indeed
to his normal qualities. The sin against the lofty spirit of his vocation,
however, begins where this striving for power ceases to be objective and
becomes purely personal self-intoxication, instead of exclusively entering
the service of 'the cause.' For ultimately there are only two kinds of
deadly sins in the field of politics: lack of objectivity and — often but not
always identical with it — irresponsibility. Vanity, the need personally to
stand in the foreground as clearly as possible, strongly tempts the poli-
tician to commit one or both of these sins. This is more truly the case
as the demagogue is compelled to count upon 'effect.' He therefore
is constantly in danger of becoming an actor as well as taking lightly
the responsibility for the outcome of his actions and of being concerned
merely with the 'impression' he makes. His lack of objectivity tempts
him to strive for the glamorous semblance of power rather than for
actual power. His irresponsibility, however, suggests that he enjoy power
merely for power's sake without a substantive purpose. Although, or
rather just because, power is the unavoidable means, and striving for
power is one of the driving forces of all politics, there is no more harmful
distortion of political force than the parvenu-like braggart with power,
and the vain self-reflection in the feeling of power, and in general
every worship of power per se. The mere 'power politician' may get
strong effects, but actually his work leads nowhere and is seifseless.
(Among us, too, an ardently promoted cult seeks to glorify him.) In this,
the critics of 'power politics' are absolutely right. From the sudden
inner collapse of typical representatives of this mentality, we can see
what inner weakness and impotence hides behind this boastful but en-
POLITICS AS A VOCATION II 7
tirely empty gesture. It is a product of a shoddy and superficially
blase attitude towards the meaning of human conduct; and it has no re-
lation whatsoever to the knowledge of tragedy with which all action,
but especially political action, is truly interwoven.
The final result of political action often, no, even regularly, stands
in completely inadequate and often even paradoxical relation to its
original meaning. This is fundamental to all history, a point not to be
proved in detail here. But because of this fact, the serving of a cause
must not be absent if action is to have inner strength. Exactly what
the cause, in the service of which the politician strives for power and
uses power, looks like is a matter of faith. The politician may serve
national, humanitarian, social, ethical, cultural, worldly, or religious
ends. The politician may be sustained by a strong belief in 'progress' —
no matter in which sense — or he may coolly reject this kind of belief.
He may claim to stand in the service of an 'idea' or, rejecting this in
principle, he may want to serve external ends of everyday life. However,
some kind of faith must always exist. Otherwise, it is absolutely true that
the curse of the creature's worthlessness overshadows even the externally
strongest political successes.
With the statement above we are already engaged in discussing the
last problem that concerns us tonight: the ethos of politics as a 'cause.'
What calling can politics fulfil quite independently of its goals within
the total ethical economy of human conduct — which is, so to speak,
the ethical locus where politics is at home? Here, to be sure, ultimate
W eltanschauungen clash, world views among which in the end one has
to make a choice. Let us resolutely tackle this problem, which recently
has been opened again, in my view in a very wrong way.
But first, let us free ourselves from a quite trivial falsification: namely,
that ethics may first appear in a morally highly compromised role. Let
us consider examples. Rarely will you find that a man whose love turns
from one woman to another feels no need to legitimate this before him-
self by saying: she was not worthy of my love, or, she has disappointed
me, or whatever other like 'reasons' exist. This is an attitude that, with
a profound lack of chivalry, adds a fancied 'legitimacy' to the plain fact
that he no longer loves her and that the woman has to bear it. By virtue
of this 'legitimation,' the man claims a right for himself and besides
causing the misfortune seeks to put her in the wrong. The successful
amatory competitor proceeds exactly in the same way: namely, the
opponent must be less worthy, otherwise he would not have lost out.
Il8 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
It is no different, of course, if after a victorious war the victor in undig-
nified self-righteousness claims, 'I have won because I was right.' Or,
if somebody under the frightfulness of war collapses psychologically, and
instead of simply saying it was just too much, he feels the need of legiti-
mizing his war weariness to himself by substituting the feeling, 'I could
not bear it because I had to fight for a morally bad cause.' And likewise
with the defeated in war. Instead of searching like old women for the
'guilty one' after the war — in a situation in which the structure of society
produced the war — everyone with a manly and controlled attitude would
tell the enemy, 'We lost the war. You have won it. That is now all over.
Now let us discuss what conclusions must be drawn according to the
objective interests that came into play and what is the main thing in
view of the responsibility towards the future which above all burdens
the victor.' Anything else is undignified and will become a boomerang.
A nation forgives if its interests have been damaged, but no nation
forgives if its honor has been offended, especially by a bigoted self-
righteousness. Every new document that comes to light after decades
revives the undignified lamentations, the hatred and scorn, instead of
allowing the war at its end to be buried, at least morally. This is possible
only through objectivity and chivalry and above all only through dig-
nity. But never is it possible through an 'ethic,' which in truth signifies
a lack of dignity on both sides. Instead of being concerned about what
the politician is interested in, the future and the responsibility towards
the future, this ethic is concerned about politically sterile questions of
past guilt, which are not to be settled politically. To act in this way is
politically guilty, if such guilt exists at all. And it overlooks the unavoid-
able falsification of the whole problem, through very material interests:
namely, the victor's interest in the greatest possible moral and material
gain; the hopes of the defeated to trade in advantages through confes-
sions of guilt. If anything is 'vulgar,' then, this is, and it is the result of
this fashion of exploiting 'ethics' as a means of 'being in the right.'
Now then, what relations do ethics and politics actually have.'' Have
the two nothing whatever to do with one another, as has occasionally
been said? Or, is the reverse true: that the ethic of political conduct is
identical with that of any other conduct ? Occasionally an exclusive choice
has been believed to exist between the two propositions — either the one
or the other proposition must be correct. But is it true that any ethic
of the world could establish commandments of identical content for
erotic, business, familial, and official relations; for the relations to one's
POLITICS AS A VOCATION II 9
wife, to the greengrocer, the son, the competitor, the friend, the defend-
ant? Should it really matter so little for the ethical demands on politics
that politics operates with very special means, namely, power backed up
by violence? Do we not see that the Bolshevik and the Spartacist ideolo-
gists bring about exactly the same results as any militaristic dictator just
because they use this political means? In what but the persons of the
power-holders and their dilettantism does the rule of the workers' and
soldiers' councils differ from the rule of any power-holder of the old
regime? In what way does the polemic of most representatives of the
presumably new ethic differ 'from that of the opponents which they
criticized, or the ethic of any other demagogues ? In their noble intention,
people will say. Good! But it is the means about which we speak here,
and the adversaries, in complete subjective sincerity, claim, in the very
same way, that their ultimate intentions are of lofty character. 'All they
that take the sword shall perish with the sword' and fighting is every-
where fighting. Hence, the ethic of the Sermon on the Mount.
By the Sermon on the Mount, we mean the absolute ethic of the
gospel, which is a more serious matter than those who are fond of
quoting these commandments today believe. This ethic is lio joking
matter. The same holds for this ethic as has been said of causality in
science: it is not a cab, which one can have stopped at one's pleasure; it is
all or nothing. This is precisely the meaning of the gospel, if trivialities
are not to result. Hence, for instance, it was said of the wealthy young
man, 'He went away sorrowful : for he had great possessions.' The evange-
list commandment, however, is unconditional and unambiguous: give
what thou hast — absolutely everything. The politician will say that this
is a socially senseless imposition as long as it is not carried out every-
where. Thus the politician upholds taxation, confiscatory taxation, out-
right confiscation; in a word, compulsion and regulation for all. The
ethical commandment, however, is not at all concerned about that, and
this unconcern is its essence. Or, take the example, 'turn the other
cheek': This command is unconditional and does not question the source
of the other's authority to strike. Except for a saint it is an ethic of
indignity. This is it: one must be saintly in everything; at least in inten-
tion, one must live like Jesus, the apostles, St. Francis, and their like.
Then this ethic makes sense and expresses a kind of dignity; otherwise
it does not. For if it is said, in line with the acosmic ethic of love,
'Resist not him that is evil with force,' for the politician the reverse
proposition holds, 'thou shalt resist evil by force,' or else you are re-
120 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
sponsible for the evil winning out. He who wishes to follow the ethic
of the gospel should abstain from strikes, for strikes mean compulsion;
he may join the company unions. Above all things, he should not talk
of 'revolution.' After all, the ethic of the gospel does not wish to teach
that civil war is the only legitimate war. The pacifist who follows the
gospel will refuse to bear arms or will throw them down; in Germany
this was the recommended ethical duty to end the war and therewith all
wars. The politician would say the only sure means to discredit the
war for all foreseeable time would have been a status quo peace. Then
the nations would have questioned, what was this war for? And then
the war would have been argued ad ahsurdum, which is now impossible.
For the victors, at least for part of them, the war will have been politically
profitable. And the responsibility for this rests on behavior that made all
resistance impossible for us. Now, as a result of the ethics of absolutism,
when the period of exhaustion will have passed, the peace will be dis-
credited, not the war.
Finally, let us consider the duty of truthfulness. For the absolute ethic
it holds unconditionally. Hence the conclusion was reached to publish
all documents, especially those placing blame on one's own country. On
the basis of these one-sided publications the confessions of guilt followed
— and they were one-sided, unconditional, and without regard to con-
sequences. The politician will find that as a result truth will not be
furthered but certainly obscured through abuse and unleashing of pas-
sion; only an all-round methodical investigation by non-partisans could
bear fruit; any other procedure may have consequences for a nation
that cannot be remedied for decades. But the absolute ethic just does not
asJ{^ for 'consequences.' That is the decisive point.
We must be clear about the fact that all ethically oriented conduct may
be guided by one of two fundamentally differing and irreconcilably op-
posed maxims: conduct can be oriented to an 'ethic of ultimate ends'
or to an 'ethic of responsibility.' This is not to say that an ethic of ultimate
ends is identical with irresponsibility, or that an ethic of responsibility
is identical with unprincipled opportunism. Naturally nobody says that.
However, there is an abysmal contrast between conduct that follows the
maxim of an ethic of ultimate ends — that is, in religious terms, 'The
Christian does rightly and leaves the results with the Lord' — and conduct
that follows the maxim of an ethic of responsibility, in which case one
has to give an account of the foreseeable results of one's action.
You may demonstrate to a convinced syndicalist, believing in an ethic
POLITICS AS A VOCATION 121
of ultimate ends, that his action will result in increasing the oppor-
tunities of reaction, in increasing the oppression of his class, and ob-
structing its ascent — and you will not make the slightest impression upon
him. If an action of good intent leads to bad results, then, in the actor's
eyes, not he but the world, or the stupidity of other men, or God's will
who made them thus, is responsible for the evil. However a man who
believes in an ethic of responsibility takes account of precisely the aver-
age deficiences of people; as Fichte has correctly said, he does not even
have the right to presuppose their goodness and perfection. He does not
feel in a position to burden others with the results of his own actions so
far as he was able to foresee them; he will say: these results are ascribed
to my action. The believer in an ethic of ultimate ends feels 'responsible'
only for seeing to it that the flame of pure intentions is not quelched:
for example, the flame of protesting against the injustice of the social
order. To rekindle the flame ever anew is the purpose of his quite
irrational deeds, judged in view of their possible success. They are acts
that can and shall have only exemplary value.
But even herewith the problem is not yet exhausted. No ethics in the
world can dodge the fact that in numerous instances the attainment of
'good' ends is bound to the fact that one must be willing to pay the
price of using morally dubious means or at least dangerous ones — and
facing the possibility or even the probability of evil ramifications. From
no ethics in the world can it be concluded when and to what extent
the ethically good purpose 'justifies' the ethically dangerous means and
ramifications.
The decisive means for politics is violence. You may see the extent
of the tension between means and ends, when viewed ethically, from the
following: as is generally known, even during the war the revolutionary
socialists (Zimmerwald faction) professed a principle that one might
strikingly formulate: 'If we face the choice either of some more years
of war and then revolution, or peace now and no revolution, we choose —
some more years of war!' Upon the further question: 'What can this
revolution bring about?' every scientifically trained socialist would have
had the answer: One cannot speak of a transition to an economy that
in our sense could be called socialist; a bourgeois economy will re-emerge,
merely stripped of the feudal elements and the dynastic vestiges. For this
very modest result, they are willing to face 'some more years of war.' One
may well say that even with a very robust socialist conviction one might
reject a purpose that demands such means. With Bolshevism and Spar-
122 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
tacism, and, in general, with any kind of revolutionary socialism, it is pre-
cisely the same thing. It is of course utterly ridiculous if the power poli-
ticians of the old regime are morally denounced for their use of the
same means, however justified the rejection of their aims may be.
The ethic of ultimate ends apparently must go to pieces on the problem
of the justification of means by ends. As a matter of fact, logically it has
only the possibility of rejecting all action that employs morally dangerous
means — in theory! In the world of realities, as a rule, we encounter the
ever-renewed experience that the adherent of an ethic of ultimate ends
suddenly turns into a chiliastic prophet. Those, for example, who have
just preached 'love against violence' now call for the use of force for the
last violent deed, which would then lead to a state of affairs in which all
violence is annihilated. In the same manner, our officers told the soldiers
before every offensive: 'This will be the last one; this one will bring
victory and therewith peace.' The proponent of an ethic of absolute ends
cannot stand up under the ethical irrationality of the world. He is a
cosmic-ethical 'rationalist.' Those of you who know Dostoievski will re-
member the scene of the 'Grand Inquisitor,' where the problem is poign-
antly unfolded. If one makes any concessions at all to the principle
that the end justifies the means, it is not possible to bring an ethic
of ultimate ends and an ethic of responsibility under one roof or to
decree ethically which end should justify which means.
My colleague, Mr. F. W. Forster, whom personally I highly esteem
for his undoubted sincerity, but whom I reject unreservedly as a politi-
cian, beheves it is possible to get around this difficulty by the simple
thesis: 'from good comes only good; but from evil only evil follows.'
In that case this whole complex of questions would not exist. But it is
rather astonishing that such a thesis could come to light two thousand
five hundred years after the Upanishads. Not only the whole course of
world history, but every frank examination of everyday experience
points to the very opposite. The development of religions all over the
world is determined by the fact that the opposite is true. The age-old
problem of theodicy consists of the very question of how it is that a
power which is said to be at once omnipotent and kind could have
created such an irrational world of undeserved suffering, unpunished
injustice, and hopeless stupidity. Either this power is not omnipotent or
not kind, or, entirely different principles of compensation and reward
govern our life — principles we may interpret metaphysically, or even
principles that forever escape our comprehension.
POLITICS AS A VOCATION 1 23
This problem — the experience of the irrationahty of the world — has
been the driving force of all religious evolution. The Indian doctrine of
karma, Persian dualism, the doctrine of original sin, predestination
and the deiis ahsconditiis, all these have grown out of this experience.
Also the early Christians knew full well the world is governed by
demons and that he who lets himself in for politics, that is, for power and
force as means, contracts with diabolical powers and for his action it is
not true that good can follow only from good and evil only from evil,
but that often the opposite is true. Anyone who fails to see this is,
indeed, a political infant.
We are placed into various life-spheres, each of which is governed
by different laws. Religious ethics have settled with this fact in different
ways. Hellenic polytheism made sacrifices to Aphrodite and Hera ahke,
to Dionysus and to Apollo, and knew these gods were frequently in con-
flict with one another. The Hindu order of life made each of the differ-
ent occupations an object of a specific ethical code, a Dharma, and for-
ever segregated one from the other as castes, thereby placing them into
a fixed hierarchy of rank. For the man born into it, there was no escape
from it, lest he be twice-born in another life. The occupations were thus
placed at varying distances from the highest religious goods of salva-
tion. In this way, the caste order allowed for the possibility of fashioning
the Dharma of each single caste, from those of the ascetics and Brahmins
to those of the rogues and harlots, in accordance with the immanent and
autonomous laws of their respective occupations. War and politics were
also included. You will find war integrated into the totality of life-spheres
in the Bhagavad-Gita, in the conversation between Krishna and Arduna.
'Do what must be done,' i.e. do that work which, according to the
Dharma of the warrior caste and its rules, is obligatory and which, ac-
cording to the purpose of the war, is objectively necessary. Hinduism be-
lieves that such conduct does not damage religious salvation but, rather,
promotes it. When he faced the hero's death, the Indian warrior was
always sure of Indra's heaven, just as was the Teuton warrior of Val-
halla. The Indian hero would have despised Nirvana just as much as the
Teuton would have sneered at the Christian paradise with its angels'
choirs. This specialization of ethics allowed for the Indian ethic's quite
unbroken treatment of politics by following poHtics' own laws and even
radically enhancing this royal art.
A really radical 'Machiavellianism,' in the popular sense of this word,
is classically represented in Indian literature, in the Kautaliya Arthasastra
124 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
(long before Christ, allegedly dating from Chandragupta's time). In con-
trast with this document Machiavelli's Principe is harmless. As is known
in Catholic ethics — to which otherwise Professor Forster stands close —
the consilia evangelica are a special ethic for those endowed with the
charisma of a holy life. There stands the monk who must not shed
blood or strive for gain, and beside him stand the pious knight and the
burgher, who are allowed to do so, the one to shed blood, the other to
pursue gain. The gradation of ethics and its organic integration into the
doctrine of salvation is less consistent than in India. According to the
presuppositions of Christian faith, this could and had to be the case.
The wickedness of the world stemming from original sin allowed with
relative ease the integration of violence into ethics as a disciplinary means
against sin and against the heretics who endangered the soul. However,
the demands of the Sermon on the Mount, an acosmic ethic of ulti-
mate ends, implied a natural law of absolute imperatives based upon
religion. These absolute imperatives retained their revolutionizing force
and they came upon the scene with elemental vigor during almost all
periods of social upheaval. They produced especially the radical pacifist
sects, one of which in Pennsylvania experimented in establishing a polity
that renounced violence towards the outside. This experiment took a
tragic course, inasmuch as with the outbreak of the War of Independence
the Quakers could not stand up arms-in-hand for their ideals, which
were those of the war.
Normally, Protestantism, however, absolutely legitimated the state as a
divine institution and hence violence as a means. Protestantism, espe-
cially, legitimated the authoritarian state. Luther relieved the individual
of the ethical responsibility for war and transferred it to the authorities.
To obey the authorities in matters other than those of faith could never
constitute guilt. Calvinism in turn knew principled violence as a means
of defending the faith; thus Calvinism knew the crusade, which was
for Islam an element of life from the beginning. One sees that it is by
no means a modern disbehef born from the hero worship of the Renais-
sance which poses the problem of political ethics. All religions have
wrestled with it, with highly differing success, and after what has been
said it could not be otherwise. It is the specific means of legitimate
violence as such in the hand of human associations which determines
the peculiarity of all ethical problems of politics.
Whosoever contracts with violent means for whatever ends — and every
poUtician does — is exposed to its specific consequences. This holds espe-
POLITICS AS A VOCATION I25
cially for the crusader, religious and revolutionary alike. Let us confi-
dently take the present as an example. He who wants to establish abso-
lute justice on earth by force requires a following, a human 'machine.'
He must hold out the necessary internal and external premiums, heavenly
or worldly reward, to this 'machine' or else the machine will not func-
tion. Under the conditions of the modern class struggle, the internal
premiums consist oi. the satisfying of hatred and the craving for re-
venge; above all, resentment and the need for pseudo-ethical self-right-
eousness: the opponents must be slandered and accused of heresy. The
external rewards are adventure, victory, booty, power, and spoils. The
leader and his success are completely dependent upon the functioning of
his machine and hence not on his own motives. Therefore he also de-
pends upon whether or not the premiums can be permanently granted
to the following, that is, to the Red Guard, the informers, the agitators,
whom he needs. What he actually attains under the conditions of his
work is therefore not in his hand, but is prescribed to him by the foUow-
ing's motives, which, if viewed ethically, are predominantly base. The
following can be harnessed only so long as an honest belief in his person
and his cause inspires at least part of the following, probably never on
earth even the majority. This belief, even when subjectively sincere, is in
a very great number of cases really no more than an ethical 'legitimation'
of cravings for revenge, power, booty, and spoils. We shall not be de-
ceived about this by verbiage; the materialist interpretation of history is
no cab to be taken at will; it does not stop short of the promoters of
revolutions. Emotional revolutionism is followed by the traditionalist
routine of everyday life; the crusading leader and the faith itself fade
away, or, what is even more effective, the faith becomes part of the con-
ventional phraseology of political Philistines and banausic technicians.
This development is especially rapid with struggles of faith because they
are usually led or inspired by genuine leaders, that is, prophets of revolu-
tion. For here, as with every leader's machine, one of the conditions for
success is the depersonalization and routinization, in short, the psychic
proletarianization, in the interests of discipline. After coming to power the
following of a crusader usually degenerates very easily into a quite com-
mon stratum of spoilsmen.
Whoever wants to engage in politics at all, and especially in politics
as a vocation, has to realize these ethical paradoxes. He must know that
he is responsible for what may become of himself under the impact of
these paradoxes. I repeat, he lets himself in for the diabolic forces lurking
126 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
in all violence. The great virtuosi of acosmic love of humanity and good-
ness, whether stemming from Nazareth or Assisi or from Indian royal
castles, have not operated with the political means of violence. Their
kingdom was 'not of this world' and yet they worked and still work
in this world. The figures of Platon Karatajev and the saints of Dostoiev-
ski still remain their most adequate reconstructions. He who seeks
the salvation of the soul, of his own and of others, should not seek
it along the avenue of politics, for the quite different tasks of politics
can only be solved by violence. The genius or demon of politics lives in
an inner tension with the god of love, as well as with the Christian God
as expressed by the church. This tension can at any time lead to an
irreconcilable conflict. Men knew this even in the times of church rule.
Time and again the papal interdict was placed upon Florence and at
the time it meant a far more robust power for men and their salvation
of soul than (to speak with Fichte) the 'cool approbation' of the Kantian
ethical judgment. The burghers, however, fought the church-state. And
it is with reference to such situations that Machiavelli in a beautiful
passage, if I am not mistaken, of the History of Florence, has one of his
heroes praise those citizens who deemed the greatness of their native
city higher than the salvation of their souls.
If one says 'the future of socialism' or 'international peace,' instead of
native city or 'fatherland' (which at present may be a dubious value
to some), then you face the problem as it stands now. Everything that
is striven for through political action operating with violent means and
following an ethic of responsibility endangers the 'salvation of the soul.'
If, however, one chases after the ultimate good in a war of beliefs, fol-
lowing a pure ethic of absolute ends, then the goals may be damaged
and discredited for generations, because responsibility for consequences
is lacking, and two diabolic forces which enter the play remain un-
known to the actor. These are inexorable and produce consequences for
his action and even for his inner self, to which he must helplessly sub-
mit, unless he perceives them. The sentence: 'The devil is old; grow old
to understand him!' does not refer to age in terms of chronological years.
I have never permitted myself to lose out in a discussion through a
reference to a date registered on a birth certificate; but the mere fact
that someone is twenty years of age and that I am over fifty is no
cause for me to think that this alone is an achievement before which I am
overawed. Age is not decisive; what is decisive is th'e trained relentless-
POLITICS AS A VOCATION 1 27
ness in viewing the realities of life, and the ability to face such realities
and to measure up to them inwardly.
Surely, politics is made with the head, but it is certainly not made
with the head alone. In this the proponents of an ethic of ultimate ends
are right. One cannot prescribe to anyone whether he should follow an
ethic of absolute ends or an ethic of responsibility, or when the one
and when the other. One can say only this much: If in these times,
which, in your opinion, are not times of 'sterile' excitation — excitation is
not, after all, genuine passion — if now suddenly the W eltanschauungs-
politicians crop up en masse and pass the watchword, 'The world is
stupid and base, not I,' 'The responsibility for the consequences does
not fall upon me but upon the others whom I serve and whose stupidity
or baseness I shall eradicate,' then I declare frankly that I would first
inquire into the degree of inner poise backing this ethic of ultimate
ends. I am under the impression that in nine out of ten cases I deal with
windbags who do not fully realize what they take upon themselves but
who intoxicate themselves with romantic sensations. From a human
point of view this is not very interesting to me, nor does it move me
profoundly. However, it is immensely moving when a mature man —
no matter whether old or young in years — is aware of a responsibility
for the consequences of his conduct and really feels such responsibility
with heart and soul. He then acts by following an ethic of responsibility
and somewhere he reaches the point where he says: 'Here I stand; I can
do no other.' That is something genuinely human and moving. And
every one of us who is not spiritually dead must realize the possibility of
finding himself at some time in that position. In so far as this is true,
an ethic of ultimate ends and an ethic of responsibility are not absolute
contrasts but rather supplements, which only in unison constitute a
genuine man — a man who can have the 'calling for politics.'
Now then, ladies and gentlemen, let us debate this matter once
more ten years from now. Unfortunately, for a whole series of reasons,
I fear that by then the period of reaction will have long since broken
over us. It is very probable that little of what many of you, and (I
candidly confess) I too, have wished and hoped for will be fulfilled;
little — perhaps not exactly nothing, but what to us at least seems little.
This will not crush me, but surely it is an inner burden to realize it.
Then, I wish I could see what has become of those of you who now feel
yourselves to be genuinely 'principled' politicians and who share in the
128 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
intoxication signified by tiiis revolution. It would be nice if matters
turned out in such a way that Shakespeare's Sonnet 102 should hold
true:
Our love was new, and then but in the spring,
When I was wont to greet it with my lays;
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing,
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days.
But such is not the case. Not summer's bloom lies ahead of us, but
rather a polar night of icy darkness and hardness, no matter which
group may triumph externally now. Where there is nothing, not only the
Kaiser but also the proletarian has lost his rights. When this night shall
have slowly receded, who of those for whom spring apparently has
bloomed so luxuriously will be alive? And what will have become of
all of you by then? Will you be bitter or banausic? Will you simply and
dully accept world and occupation? Or will the third and by no means
the least frequent possibility be your lot: mystic flight from reality for
those who are gifted for it, or — as is both frequent and unpleasant — for
those who belabor themselves to follow this fashion? In every one of
such cases, I shall draw the conclusion that they have not measured up to
their own doings. They have not measured up to the world as it really
is in its everyday routine. Objectively and actually, they have not ex-
perienced the vocation for politics in its deepest meaning, which they
thought they had. They would have done better in simply cultivating
plain brotherliness in personal relations. And for the rest — they should
have gone soberly about their daily work.
Politics is a strong and slow boring of hard boards. It takes both pas-
sion and perspective. Certainly all historical experience confirms the truth
— that man would not have attained the possible unless time and again
he had reached out for the impossible. But to do that a man must be a
leader, and not only a leader but a hero as well, in a very sober sense
of the word. And even those who are neither leaders nor heroes must
arm themselves with that steadfastness of heart which can brave even
the crumbling of all hopes. This is necessary right now, or else men
will not be able to attain even that which is possible today. Only he has
I the calling for politics who is sure that he shall not crumble when the
world from his point of view is too stupid or too base for what he wants
to offer. Only he who in the face of all this can say 'In spite of all!' has
the calling for politics.
V . ocience as a V ocation
You wish me to speak about 'Science as a Vocation.' Now, we political
economists have a pedantic custom, which I should like to follow, of
always beginning with the external conditions. In this case, we begin
with the question: What are the conditions of science as a vocation in
the material sense of the term? Today this question means, practically
and essentially: What are the prospects of a graduate student who is
resolved to dedicate himself professionally to science in university life.?
In order to understand the peculiarity of German conditions it is ex-
pedient to proceed by comparison and to realize the conditions abroad.
In this respect, the United States stands in the sharpest contrast with
Germany, so we shall focus upon that country.
Everybody knows that in Germany the career of the young man who
is dedicated to science normally begins with the position of Privatdozent.
After having conversed with and received the consent of the re-
spective specialists, he takes up residence on the basis of a book and,
usually, a rather formal examination before the faculty of the university.
Then he gives a course of lectures without receiving any salary other
than the lecture fees of his students. It is up to him to determine, within
his venia legendi, the topics upon which he lectures.
In the United States the academic career usually begins in quite a
different manner, namely, by employment as an 'assistant.' This is
similar to the great institutes of the natural science and medical faculties
in Germany, where usually only a fraction of the assistants try to habili-
tate themselves as Privatdozenten and often only later in their career.
Practically, this contrast means that the career of the academic man in
Germany is generally based upon plutocratic prerequisites. For it is ex-
tremely hazardous for a young scholar without funds to expose himself
'Wissenschaft als Beruf,' Gesammelte Aufsaetze zitr Wissenschaftslelire (Tubingen, 1922),
pp. 524-55. Originally a speech at Munich University, 1918, published in 1919 by Duncker
& Humblodt, Munich.
129
130 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
to the conditions of the academic career. He must be able to endure this
condition for at least a number of years without knowing whether he
will have the opportunity to move into a position which pays well
enough for maintenance.
In the United States, where the bureaucratic system exists, the young
academic man is paid from the very beginning. To be sure, his salary
is modest; usually it is hardly as much as the wages of a semi-skilled
laborer. Yet he begins with a seemingly secure position, for he draws
a fixed salary. As a rule, however, notice may be given to him just as
with German assistants, and frequently he definitely has to face this
should he not come up to expectations.
These expectations are such that the young academic in America must
draw large crowds of students. This cannot happen to a German decent;
once one has him, one cannot get rid of him. To be sure, he cannot raise
any 'claims.' But he has the understandable notion that after years of
work he has a sort of moral right to expect some consideration. He also
expects — and this is often quite important — that one have some regard
for him when the question of the possible habilitation of other Privat-
dozenten comes up.
Whether, in principle, one should habilitate every scholar who is quali-
fied or whether one should consider enrollments, and hence give the
existing staff a monopoly to teach — that is an awkward dilemma. It is asso-
ciated with the dual aspect of the academic profession, which we shall
discuss presently. In general, one decides in favor of the second alter-
native. But this increases the danger that the respective full professor,
however conscientious he is, will prefer his own disciples. If I may
speak of my personal attitude, I must say I have followed the principle
that a scholar promoted by me must legitimize and habilitate himself
with somebody else at another university. But the result has been that
one of my best disciples has been turned down at another university
because nobody there believed this to be the reason.
A further difference between Germany and the United States is that
in Germany the Privatdozent generally teaches fewer courses than he
wishes. According to his formal right, he can give any course in his
field. But to do so would be considered an improper lack of considera-
tion for the older docents. As a rule, the full professor gives the 'big'
courses and the docent confines himself to secondary ones. The ad-
vantage of these arrangements is that during his youth the academic
SCIENCE AS A VOCATION I3I
man is free to do scientific work, although this restriction of the oppor-
tunity to teach is somewhat involuntary.
In America, the arrangement is different in principle. Precisely during
the early years of his career the assistant is absolutely overburdened just
because he is paid. In a department of German, for instance, the full
professor will give a three-hour course on Goethe and that is enough,
whereas the young assistant is happy if, besides the drill in the German
language, his twelve weekly teaching hours include assignments of, say,
Uhland. The officials prescribe the curriculum, and in this the assistant
is just as dependent as the institute assistant in Germany.
Of late we can observe distinctly that the German universities in the
broad fields of science develop in the direction of the American system.
The large institutes of medicine or natural science are 'state capitalist'
)nsesPwhich cannot be managed without very considerabje funds.
Here we encounter the sarrie conHition that is found wherever capitalist
enterprise comes into operation: the 'separation of the worker from his
means of production.' 'ihe worker, that is, the assistant, is dependent
upon the implements that the state puts'at Iiis disposal; hence he is just
as dependent upon the head of the institute as is the employee in a
factory upon the management. For, subjectively and in good faith, the
director believes that this institute is 'his,' and he manages its affairs.
Thus the assistant's position is often as precarious as is that of any
'quasi-proletarian' existence and just as precarious as the position of the
assistant in the American university.
In very important respects German university life is being American-
ized, as is German life in general. This development, I am convinced,
will engulf those disciplines in which the craftsman personally owns the
tools, essentially the library, as is still the case to a large extent in my
own field. This development corresponds entirely to what happened to
the artisan of the past and it is now fully under way.
As with all capitalist and at the same time bureaucratized enterprises,
there are indubitable advantages in all this. But the 'spirit' that rules in
these affairs is different from the historical atmosphere of the German
university. An extraordinarily wide gulf, externally and internally, exists
between the chief of these large, capitalist, university enterprises and
the usual full j)rofessor of the old style. This contrast also holds for the
inner attitude, a matter that I shall not go into here. Inwardly as well
as externally, the old university constitution has become fictitious. What
has remained and what has been essentially increased is a factor peculiar
132 SCIENCE AND rOLlTICS
to the university career: the question whether or not such a Privatdozent,
and still more an assistant, will ever succeed in moving into the position
of a full professor or even become the head of an institute. That is
simply a hazard. Certainly, chance does not rule alone, but it rules to an
unusually high degree. I know of hardly any career on earth where
chance plays such a role. I may say so all the more since I personally
owe it to some mere accidents that during my very early years I was ap-
pointed to a full professorship in a discipline in which men of my genera-
tion undoubtedly had achieved more tha^ I had. And, indeed, I fancy,
on the basis of this experience, that I have a sharp eye for the undeserved
fate of the many whom accident has cast in the opposite direction and
who within this selective apparatus in spite of all their ability do not
attain the positions that are due them.
The fact that hazard rather than ability plays so large a role is not
alone or even predominantly owing to the 'human, all too human'
factors, which naturally occur in the process of academic selection as in
any other selection. It would be unfair to hold the personal inferiority of
faculty members or educational ministries responsible for the fact that
so many mediocrities undoubtedly play an eminent role at the universities.
The predominance of mediocrity is rather due to the laws of human
co-operation, especially of the co-operation of several bodies, and, in this
case, co-operation of the faculties who recommend and of the ministries
of education.
A counterpart are the events at the papal elections, which can be
traced over many centuries and which are the most important control-
lable examples of a selection of the same nature as the academic selection.
The cardinal who is said to be the 'favorite' only rarely has a chance to
win out. The rule is rather that the Number Two cardinal or the
Number Three wins out. The same holds for the President of the
United States. Only exceptionally does the first-rate and most prominent
man get the nomination of the convention. Mostly the Number Two and
often the Number Three men are nominated and later run for elecdon.
The Americans have already formed technical sociological terms for
these categories, and it would be quite interesting to enquire into the
laws of selection by a collective will by studying these examples, but we
shall not do so here. Yet these laws also hold for the collegiate bodies
of German universities, and one must not be surprised at the frequent
mistakes that are made, but rather at the number of correct appoint-
ments, the proportion of which, in spite of all, is very considerable. Only
SCIENCE AS A VOCATION I33
where parliaments, as in some countries, or monarchs, as in Germany
thus far (both work out in the same way), or revolutionary power-hold-
ers, as in Germany now, intervene for political reasons in academic selec-
tions, can one be certain that convenient mediocrities or strainers will
have the opportunities all to themselves.
No university teacher likes to be reminded of discussions of appoint-
ments, for they are seldom agreeable. And yet I may say that in the
numerous cases known to me there was, without exception, the good
will to allow purely objective reasons to be decisive.
One must be clear about another thing: that the decision over academic
fates is so largely a 'hazard' is not merely because of the insufficiency
of the selection by the collective formation of will. Every young man
who feels called to scholarship has to realize clearly that the task before
him has a double aspect. He must qualify not only as a scholar but
also as a teacher. And the two do not at all coincide. One can be a pre-
eminent scholar and at the same time an abominably poor teacher. May
I remind you of the teaching of men like Helmholtz or Ranke; and
they are not by any chance rare exceptions.
Now, matters are such that German universities, especially the small
universities, are engaged in a most ridiculous competition for enroll-
ments. The landlords of rooming houses in university cities celebrate
the advent of the thousandth student by a festival, and they would love
to celebrate Number Two Thousand by a torchhght procession. The
interest in fees^and one should openly admit it — is affected by appoint-
ments in the neighboring fields that 'draw crowds.' And quite apart
from this, the number of students enrolled is a test of qualification, which
may be grasped in terms of numbers, whereas the qualification for
scholarship is imponderable and, precisely with audacious innovators,
often debatable — that is only natural. Almost everybody thus is affected
by the suggestion of the immeasurable blessing and value of large en- ,
rollments. To say of a docent that he is a poor teacher is usually to
pronounce an academic sentence of death, even if he is the foremost
scholar in the world. And the question whether he is a good or a poor
teacher is answered by the enrollments with which the students conde- •■-
scendingly honor him. V
It is a fact that whether or not the students flock to a teacher is de-
termined in large measure, larger than one would believe possible, by
purely external things: temperament and even the inflection of his
voice. After rather extensive experience and sober reflection, I have a
134 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
deep distrust of courses that draw crowds, however unavoidable they
may be. Democracy should be used only where it is in place. Scientific
training, as we are held to practice it in accordance with the tradition of
German universities, is the affair of an intellectual aristocracy, and we
should not hide this from ourselves. To be sure, it is true that to present
scientific problems in such a manner that an untutored but receptive
mind can understand them and — what for us is alone decisive — can come
to think about them independently is perhaps the most difficult peda-
gogical task of all. But whether this task is or is not realized is not de-
cided by enrollment figures. And — to return to our theme — this very art
is a personal gift and by no means coincides with the scientific qualifica-
tions of the scholar.
In contrast to France, Germany has no corporate body of 'immortals'
in science. According to German tradition, the universities shall do justice
to the demands both of research and of instruction. Whether the abilities
for both are found together in a man is a matter of absolute chance.
Hence academic life is a mad hazard. If the young scholar asks for my
advice with regard to habihtation, the responsibiHty of encouraging him
can hardly be borne. If he is a Jew, of course one says lasciate ogni
speranza. But o'le must ask every other man: Do you in all conscience
believe that ^ou can stand seeing mediocrity after mediocrity, year after
year, climb beyond you, without becoming embittered and without com-
ing to grief? Naturally, one always receives the answer: 'Of course, I live
only for my "calling." ' Yet, I have found that only a few men could
endure this situation without coming to grief.
This much I deem necessary to say about the external conditions of the
academic man's vocation. But I believe that actually you wish to~hear \^,~^
of something else, namely, of the inward calling for science. In our^tim^
the internal situation, in contrast to the organization of_sciejiC£_as_a
vocation, is first of all conditioned by the facts that science has entered
a phase of specialization previously unknown and that this wfH-fDrever
remain the case. Not only externally, but inwardly, matters stand at a
point where the individual can acquire the sure consciousness of achiev-
ing something truly perfect in the field of science only in case he is a
strict specialist.
All work that overlaps neighboring fields, such as we occasionally
undertake and which the sociologists must necessarily undertake again
and again, is burdened with the resigned realization that at best one
provides the specialist with useful questions upon which he would not
SCIENCE AS A VOCATION I35
SO easily hit from his own speciaHzed point of view. One's own work
must inevitably remain highly imperfect. Only by strict specialization
can the scientific worker become fully conscious, for once and perhaps
never again in his lifetime, that he has achieved something that will en-
dure. A really definitive and good accomplishment is today always a.
specialized accomplishment. And whoever lacks the capacity to put on
blinders, so to speak, and to come up to the idea that the fate of his)
"soul depends upon whether or not he makes the correct conjecture"'at
this passage of this manuscript may as well stay away from science. He
will never have what one may call the 'personal experience' of science.
Without this strange intoxicatio)i, ridiculed by every outsider; without
this passion, this 'thousands of years must pass before you enter into life
and thousands more wait in silence' — according to whether or not you
succeed in making this conjecture; without this, you have no calling for
science and you should do something else. For nothing is worthy of man
as man unless he can pursue it with passionate devotion.
Yet it is a fact that no amount of such enthusiasm, however sincere
and profound it may be, can compel a problem to yield scientific results.
Certainly enthusiasm is a prerequisite of the 'inspiration' which is de-
cisive. Nowadays in circles of youth there is a widespread notion that
science has become a problem in calculation, fabricated in laboratories or
statistical filing systems just as 'in a factory,' a calculation involving
only the cool ilntellect and not one's 'heart and soul.' First of all one must
say that such comments lack all clarity about what goes on in a factory
or in a laboratory. In both some idea has to occur to someone's mind,
and it has to be a correct idea, if one is to accomplish anything worth-
while. An3 such Intuition cannot be forced. It has nothing to do with
any cold calculation. Certainly calculation is also an indispensable prereq-
uisite. No sociologist, for instance, should think himself too good, even
in his old age, to make tens of thousands of quite trivial computations
in his head and perhaps for months at a time. One cannot with impunity
try to transfer this task entirely to mechanical assistants if one wishes
to figure something, even though the final result is often small indeed.
But if no 'idea' Occurs to his mind about the direction of his computations
and, during his computations, about the bearing of the emergent single
results, then even this small result will not be yielded.
Normally such an 'idea' is prepared only on the soil of very hard
work, but certainly this is not always the case. Scientifically, a dilet-
tante's idea may have the very same or even a greater bearing for
136 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
science than that o£ a specialist. Many of our very best hypotheses and
insights are due precisely to dilettantes. The dilettante differs from the
expert, as Helmholtz has said of Robert Mayer, only in that he lacks a
firm and reliable work procedure. Consequently he is usually not in the
position to control, to estimate, or to exploit the idea in its bearings. The
idea is not a substitute for work; and work, in turn, cannot substitute
for or compel an idea, just as little as enthusiasm can. Both, enthusiasm
and work, and above all both of them jointly, can entice the idea.
Ideas occur to us when they please, not when it pleases us. The best
ideas do indeed occur to one's mind in the way in which Ihering de-
scribes it: when smoking a cigar on the sofa; or as Helmholtz states of
himself with scientific exactitude: when taking a walk on a slowly
ascending street; or in a similar way. In any case, ideas come when we
do not expect them, and not when we are brooding and searching at our
desks. Yet ideas would certainly not come to mind had we not brooded at
our desks and searched for answers with passionate devotion.
However this may be, the scientjfic^ worker has_to_jtake into Jiis
bargain the risk that enters into all scientific _work : Does an 'idea'
occur or does it not ? He may be an excellent worker and yet never have
had any valuable idea of his own. It is a grave error to believe that this
is so only in science, and that things for instance in a business office are
different from a laboratory. A merchant or a big industrialist without
'business imagination/ that is, without ideas or ideal intuitions, will for
all his life remain a man who would better have remained a clerk or a
technical official. He will never be truly creative in organization. Inspira-
tion in the field of science by no means plays any greater role, as academic
conceit fancies, than it does in the field of mastering problems of practi-
cal life by a modern entrepreneur. On the other hand, and this also
is often misconstrued, inspiration playj no less a role in science than it
does in the realm of art. It is a childish notion to think that a mathe-
matician attains any scientifically valuable results by sitting at his desk
with a ruler, calculating machines or other mechanical means. The
mathematkal imagination of a Weierstrass is naturally quite differently
oriented in meaning and result than is the imagination of an artist, and
differs basically in quality. But the psychological processes do not differ.
Both are frenzy (in the sense of Plato's 'mania') and 'inspiration.'
Now, whether we have scientific inspiration depends upon destinies
that are hidden from us, and besides upon 'gifts.' Last but not least,
because of this indubitable truth, a very understandable attitude has
SCIENCE AS A VOCATION 137
become popular, especially among youth, and has put them in the serv-
ice of idols whose cult today occupies a broad place on all street corners
and in all periodicals. Tliese^dols^rejpersonality^
rience.' Both are intimately connected, the notion prevails that the
latter constitutes the former and belongs to it. People belabor themselves
in trying to 'experience' life — for that befits a personality, conscious of
its rank and station. And if we do not succeed in 'experiencing' life, we
must at least pretend to have this gift of grace. Formerly we called this
'experience,' in plain German, 'sensation'; and I believe that we then
had a more adequate idea of what personality is and what it signifies.
Ladies and gentlemen. In the field of science only he who is devoted
solely to the work at_hand has 'personality.' And this holds not only
for the field of science; we know of no great artist who has ever done
anything but serve his work and only his work. As far as his art is
concerned, even with a personality of Goethe's rank, it has been detri-
mental to take the liberty of trying to make his 'life' into a work of art.
And even if one doubts this, one has to be a Goethe in order to dare
permit oneself such liberty. Everybody will admit at least this much:
that even with a man like Goethe, who appears once in a thousand years,
this liberty did not go unpaid for. In politics matters are not different,
but we shall not discuss that today. In the field of science, however, the
man who makes himself the impresario of the subject to which he
should be devoted, and steps upon the stage and seeks to legitimate him-
self through 'experience,' asking: How can I prove that I am something .
other than a mere 'specialist' and how can I manage to say something o/'
in form or in content that nobody else has ever said? — such a man is no
'personality.' Today such conduct is a crowd phenomenon, and it al-
ways makes a petty impression and debases the one who is thus con-
cerned. Instead of this, an inner devotion to the task, and that alone,
should lift the scientist to the height and dignity of the subject he pre-
tends to serve. And in_ this it is not different with the artist. .
In contrast with these preconditions which scientific work shares with '■~-^ ■
art, science has a fate that profoundly distinguishes" it from artistic work.
Scientific work is chained to the course ot progress; whereas in the realm
of art there is no progress in the same sense. It is not true that the
work of art of a period that has worked out new technical means, or,
for instance, the laws of perspective, stands therefore artistically higher
than a work of art devoid of all knowledge of those means and laws —
if its form does justice to the material, that is, if its object has been
1^8 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
chosen and formed so that it could be artistically mastered without
applying those conditions and means. A work of art which is genuine
'fulfilment' is never surpassed; it will never be antiquated. Individuals
may differ in appreciating the personal significance of works of art, but
no one will ever be able to say of such a work that it is 'outstripped by
another work which is also 'fulfilment.'
In science, each of us knows that vvhat he has accomplished^will be
antiquated in ten, twenty, fifty years. That is the fate to which science
is subjected; it is the very jneaning of scientific work, to which it is de-
voted in a quite specific sense, as compared with other spheres of cul-
ture for which in general the same holds. Every scientific 'fulfilment'
raises new 'questions'; it as{s to be 'surpassed' and^outdated Whoever
wishes to serve science has to resign himself to this fact. Scientific works
certainly can last as 'gratifications' because of their artistic quality, or they
may remain important as a means of training. Yet they will be surpassed
scientifically — let that be repeated — for it is our common fate and, more,
our common goal. We cannot work without hoping that others will ad-
vance further than we have. In principle, this progress goes on ad
infinitum. And with this we come to inquire into the meaning of
science. For, after allTlt^Ts noF self-evident that something subordinate
to such a law is sensible and meaningful in itself. Why does one engage
in doing something that in reality never comes, and never can come,
to an end?
\lp One does it, first, for purely practical, in the broader sense of the
word, for technical, purposes: in order to be able to orient our practical
activities to the expectations that scientific experience places at our dis-
posal. Good. Yet this has meaning only to practitioners. Whatjsjhe^atti-
tude of the academic man towaj;ds his vocation — that is, if he is at all in
quest of such a personal attitude? He maintains that he engages in
'science for science's sake' and not merely because others, by exploiting
science, bring about commercial or technical success and can better feed,
dress, illuminate, and govern. But what does he who allows himself to be
integrated into this specialized organization, running on ad infinitum,
hope to accomplish that is significant in these productions that are al-
ways destined to be outdated? This question requires a few general
considerations.
Scientific progress is a fraction, the most important fraction, of the
process of intel^tualization which we haveT)een undergoing for thou-
sands of years and which nowadays is usually judged in such an ex-
SCIENCE AS A VOCATION I39
tremely negative way. Let us first clarify what this intellectuaUst ration-
ahzation, created by science and by scientifically oriented technology,
means practically.
Does it mean that we, today, for instance, everyone sitting in this hall,
have a^reater Jyigwle^ge of the conditions of life under which we exist
than has an American Indian or a Hottentot? Hardly. Unless he is a
physicist, one who rides on the streetcar has no idea how the car happened
to get into motion. And he does not need to know. He is satisfied that he
may 'count' on the behavior of the streetcar, and he orients his conduct
according to this expectation; but he knows nothing about what it takes
to produce such a car so that it can move. The savage knows incom-
parably more about his tools. When we spend money today I Let that
even if there are colleagues of political economy here in the hall, almost
every one of them will hold a different answer in readiness to the ques-
tion: How does it happen that one can buy something for money — some-
times more and sometimes less? The savage knows what he does in order
to get his daily food and which institutions serve him in this pursuit.
The increasing^ intellectualization and rationalization do 7iot, therefore, j.
/^ indicate an increased and general knowledge of the conditions under 'V^
which one lives.
It means something else, namely, the knowledge or belief that if one |
but wished one could learn it at any time. Hence, it means that prin- '
cipally there are no mysterious incalculable forces that come into play, :
but rather that one can, in principle, master all things by calculation, i
This means that the world is disenchanted. One need no longer have
recourse to magical means in order to master or implore the spirits, as did
the savage, for whom such mysterious powers existed. Technical means
and calculations perform the service. This above all is what intellectuali- L,
zation means.
Now, this process of disenchantment, which has continued to exist in
Occidental culture for millennia, and, in general, this 'progress,' to which
science belongs as a link and motive force, do they have any meanings
that go beyond the purely practical and technical? You will find this
question raised in the most principled form in the works of Leo Tolstoi.
He came to raise the question in a peculiar way. All his broodings in-
creasingly revolved around the problem of whether or not death is a
meaningful phenomenon. And his answer was: for civilized man death
has no meaning. It has none because the individual Hfe of civilized man,
placed into an infinite 'progress,' according to its own imminent mean-
/l
140 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
ing should never come to an end; for there is always a further step ahead
of one who stands in the march of progress. And no man who comes
to die stands upon the peak which lies in infinity. Abraham, or some
peasant of the past, died 'old and satiated with life' because he stood
in the organic cycle of life; because his life, in terms of its meaning and
on the eve of his days, had given to him what life had to offer; because
for him there remained no puzzles he might wish to solve; and there-
fore he could have had 'enough' of life. Whereas civilized man, placed
in the midst of the continuous enrichment of culture by ideas, knowl-
edge, and problems, may become 'tired of life' but not 'satiated with life.'
He catches only the most minute part of what the life of the spirit brings
forth ever anew, and what he seizes is always something provisional
and not definitive, and therefore death for him is a meaningless occur-
rence. And because death is meaningless, civilized life as such is mean-
ingless; by its very 'progressiveness' it gives death the imprint of mean-
inglessness. Throughout his late novels one meets with this thought as
the keynote of the Tolstoyan art.
What stand should one take? Has 'progress' as such a recognizable
meaning that goes beyond" tEF technical, so that tO-serve it is a meaning-
ful vocation? The question must be raised. But this is no longer merely
the question of man's calUng for science, hence, the problem of what
science as a vocation means to its devoted disciples. To raise this question
is to ask for the vocation of science within the totaj life q£. humanity.
What is the value of science?
Here the contrast between the past and the present is tremendous.
You will recall the wonderful image at the beginning of the seventh
book of Plato's Republic: those enchained cavemen whose faces are
turned toward the stone wall before them. Behind them lies the source
of the light which they cannot see. They are concerned only with the
shadowy images that this light throws upon the wall, and they seek
to fathom their interrelations. Finally one of them succeeds in shattering
his fetters, turns around, and sees the sun. Blinded, he gropes about and
stammers of what he saw. The others say he is raving. But gradually he
learns to behold the light, and then his task is to descend to the cavemen
and to lead them to the light. He is the philosopher; the sun, however,
is the truth of science, which alone seizes not upon iHusions and shadows
but upon the true being.
Well, who today views science in such a manner? Today youth
feels rather the reverse: the intellectual constructions of science consti-
SCIENCE AS A VOCATION ° I41
tute an unreal realm of artificial abstractions, which with their bony
hands seek to grasp the blood-and-the-sap of true life without ever catch-
ing up with it. But here in life, in what for Plato was the play of
shadows on the walls of the cave, genuine reality is pulsating; and the
rest are derivatives of life, lifeless ghosts, and nothing else. How did this
change come about?
Plato's passionate enthusiasm in The Republic must, in the last analy-
sis, be explained by the fact that for the first time the concept, one of the
great tools of all scientific knowledge, had been consciously discovered.
Socrates had discovered it in its bearing. He was not the only man
in the world to discover it. In India one finds the beginnings of a logic
that is quite similar to that of Aristotle's. But nowhere else do we find
this realization of the significanceof the concept. In Greece, for the first
time, appeared a handy means by which one could put the logical
screws upon somebody so that he could not come out without admitting
either that he knew nothing or that this and nothing else was truth, the
eternal truth that never would vanish as the doings of the blind men
vanish. That was the tremendous experience which dawned upon the
disciples of Socrates. And from this it seemed to follow that if one only
found the right concept of the beautiful, the goo'd, or, foFlnstance, of
bravery, of~tKe soul — or whatever — that then one could also grasp its
true being. Andjhis, jn turn, seenied_to open the way for knowing and
for teaching: how_to act rightly in life and, above all, how to act as a
citizen of the state; for this question was everything to the Hellenic man,
whose thinking was political throughout. And for these reasons one
engaged in science.
The second great tool of scientific work, the rational experiment, made
its appearance at the side of this discovery of the Hellenic spirit during
the Renaissance period. The experiment is a means of reliably controlling
experience. Without it, present-day empirical science would be impos-
sible. There were experiments earlier; for instance, in India physiological
experiments were made in the service of ascetic yoga technique; in
Hellenic antiquity, mathematical experiments were made for purposes of
war technology; and in the Middle Ages, for purposes of mining. But
to raise the experiment to a principle of research was the achievement
o£_the_JE£iiaissance. They were the great innovators in art, who were
the pioneers of experiment. Leonardo and his like and, above all, the
sixteenth-century experimenters in music with their experimental pianos
were characteristic. From these circles the experiment entered science,
142 • SCIENCE AND POLITICS
especially through Galileo, and it entered theory through Bacon; and
then it was taken over by the various exact disciplines of the continental
universities, first of all those of Italy and then those of the Netherlands.
What did science mean to these men who stood at the threshold
of modern times? To artistic experimenters of the type of Leonardo
and the musical innovators, science meant the path to^ue art, and
that meant for them the path to true nature. Art was to be raised to the
rank of a science, and this meant at the same time and above all to raise
the artist to the rank of the doctor, socially and with reference to~tKe
meaning of his life. This is the ambition on which, for instance, Leo-
nardo's sketch book was based. And today ? 'Science as the way to nature'
would sound like blasphemy to youth. Today, youth proclaims the oppo-
site: redemption from the intellectualism of science in order to return
to one's own nature and therewith to nature in general. Science as a way
to art? Here no criticism is even needed.
But during the period of the rise of the exact .sciences one^ejcpected
a great deal more. If you recall Swammerdam's statement, 'Here I bring
you the proof of God's providence in the anatomy of a louse,' you will
see what the scientific worker, influenced (indirectly) by^JProtestantism
and Puritanism, conceived to be his task: to show the path to^God.
People no longer found this path among the philosophers, with their
concepts and deductions. All pietist theology of the time, above all
Spener, knew that God was not to be found along the road by which the
Middle Ages had sought him. God is hidden, His ways are not our
ways. His thoughts are not our thoughts. In the exact sciences, however,
where one could physically grasp His works, one hoped to come upon
the traces of what He planned for the world. And today? Who-^aside
from certain big children who are indeed found in the natural sciences —
still believes that the findings of astronomy, biology, physics, or chemis-
try could teach us anything about the meaning of the world? If there is
any such 'meaning,' along what road could one come upon its tracks?
If these natural sciences lead to anything in this way, they are apt to
make the belief that there is such a thing as the 'meaning' of the uni-
verse die out at its very roots.
And finally, science as a way 'to God'? Science, this specifically irreli-
gious power? That science today is irreligious no one will doubt in his
innermost being, even if he will not admit it to himself. Redemption
from the rationalism and intellectualism of science is the fundamental
presupposition of living in union with the divine. This, or something
SCIENCE AS A VOCATION I43
similar in meaning, is one of the fundamental watchwords one hears
among German youth, whose feelings are attuned to religion or who
crave religious experiences. They crave not only religious experience '
but experience as such. The only thing that is strange is the method
that is now followed: the spheres of the irrational, the only spheres that
intellectualism has not yet touched, are now raised into consciousness
and put under its lens. For in practice this is where the modern intel-
lectualist form of romantic irrationalism leads. This method of emanci-
pation from intellectualism may well bring about the very opposite of
what those who take to it conceive as its goal.
After Nietzsche's devastating criticism of those 'last men' who 'in-
vented happiness,' I may leave aside altogether the naive optimism in
which science — that isTlHF technique of mastering life which rests upon
science — has been celebrated as the way to happiness. Who believes in
this? — aside from a few big children in university chairs or editorial
offices. Let us resume our argument.
Under these internal presuppositions, what is th£ meamng of science
as a^yo^tion, now after all these former illusions, the 'way to true be-
ing,' the 'way to true art,' the 'way to true nature,' the 'way to true God,'
the 'way to true happiness,' have been dispelled? Tolstoi has given the
simplest answer, with the words: 'Science is meaningless because it gives
no answer to our question, the only question important for us: "What
shall we do and how shall we live?"' That science does not give an
answer to this is indisputable. The only question that remains is the
sense_in which science gives 'no' answer, and whether or not science
might jet be of some use to the one who puts the question correctly.
Today one usually speaks of science as 'free from presuppositions.'
Is there such a thing? It depends upon what one understands thereby.
All scientific work presupposes that the rules of logic and method are
valid; these are the general foundations of our orientation in the world;
and, at least for our special question, these presuppositions are the least
problematic aspect of science. Science further presupposes that what
is yielded by scientific work is important in the sense that it~is 'worth
being known.' In this, obviously, are contained all our problems. For
this^presupposition cannot be proved by scientific means. It can only
be interpreted with reference to its ultimate meaning, which we must
reject or accept~accordIng to our ultirnate position towards life. ^
Furthermore, the nature of the relationship of scientific work and its
presuppositions varies widely according to their structure. The natural
144 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
sciences, for instance, physics, chemistry, and astronomy, presuppose
as self-evident that it is worth while to know the ultimate laws oT cosmic
events as far as science can construe them. This is the case not only
because with such knowledge one can attain technical results but for
its own sake, if the quest for such knowledge is to be a 'vocation.' Yet
this presupposition can by no means be proved. And still less can it be
provedHthat^the existence of The world which these sciences describe is
worth while, that it has any 'meaning,' or that it makes sense to Uve
in such a world. Science does not ask for the answers to such questions.
Consider modern medicine, a practical technology which is highly de-
veloped scientifically. The general 'presupposition' of the medical enter-
prise is stated trivially in the assertion that medical science has the task of
maintaining life as such and of diminishing suffering as such to the
greatest possible degree. Yet this is problematical. By his means the medP
cal man preserves the life of the mortally ill man, even if the patient
implores us to relieve him of life, even if his relatives, to whom his life
is worthless and to whom the costs of maintaining his worthless life
grow unbearable, grant his redemption from suffering. Perhaps a poor
lunatic is involved, whose relatives, whether they admit it or not, wish
and must wish for his death. Yet the presuppositions of medicine, and
the penal code, prevent the physician from relinquishing his therapeutic
efforts. Whether life is worth while living and when — this guestjon i£
not asked by medicine. Natural science gives us an answer to the ques-
tion of what we must do if we wish to master life technically. It leaves
quite aside, or assumes for its purposes, whether we should and do wish
to master life technically and whether it ultimately makes sense to do so.
Consider a discipline such as aesthetics. The fact that there are works
of art is given for aesthetics. It seeks to find out under what conditions
this fact exists, but it does not raise the question whether or not the
realm of art is perhaps a realm of diabolical grandeur, a realm of this
world, and therefore, in its core, hostile to God and, in its innermost and
aristocratic spirit, hostile to the brotherhood of man. Hence3__aesthetks
does not ask whether there should be works of jrt.
Consider jiirisprudence. It establishes what is valid according to the
rules of juristic thought, which is partly bound by logically compelling
and partly by conventionally given schemata. Juridical thought holds
when certain legal rules and certain methods of interpretations are recog-
nized as binding. Whether there should be law and vyhether one should
establish just these rules — such questions jurisprudence does not answer.
SCIENCE AS A VOCATION I45
It can only state: If one wishes this result, according to the norms of our
legal thought, this legal rule is the appropriate means of attaining it.
Consider the jiistorical and cultural sciences. They teach us how to
understand and interpret polTdan^irrTTstrcTTiterary, and social phenomena
in terms of their origins. But they give us no answer to the question,
whether the existence of these cultural phenomena have been and are
worth while. And they do not answer the further question, whether it is
worth the effort required to know them. They presuppose that there is
an interest in partaking, through this procedure, of the community of
'civilized men.' But they cannot prove 'scientifically' that this is the case;
and that they presuppose this interest by no means proves that it goes
without saying. In fact it is not at all self-evident.
Finally, let us consider the disciplines close to me: sociology, historyj^
economics, political science, and those types of cultural philosophy that^
make it their task to interpret these sciences. It is said, and I agree, that
politics is out of place in the lecture-room. It does not belong there
on the part of the students. If, for instance, in the lecture-room of my
former colleague Dietrich Schiifer in Berlin, pacifist students were to
surround his desk and make an uproar, I should deplore it just as much
as I should deplore the uproar which anti-pacifist students are said to
have made against Professor Forster, whose views in many ways are
as remote as could be from mine. Neither does politics, however, belong
in the lecture-room on the part of the docents, and when the docent is
scientifically concerned with politics, it belongs there least of all.
To take a practical political stand is one thing, and to analyze political
structures and party positions is another. When speaking in a political
meeting about democracy, one does not hide one's personal standpoint;
indeed, to come out clearly and take a stand is one's damned duty. The
words one uses in such a m^e^eting are not means of scientific analysis but
means of canvassing votes and winning over others. They are not plow-
shares to loosen the soil of contemplative thought; they are swords
against the enemies: such words are weapons. It would be an outrage,
however, to use words in this fashion in a lecture or in the lecture-room.
If, for instance, 'democracy' is under discussion, one considers its various
forms, analyzes them in the way they function, determines what results
for the conditions of life the one form has as compared with the other.
Then one confronts the forms of democracy with non-democratic forms
of political order and endeavors to come to a position where the student
may find the point from which, in terms of his ultimate ideals, he can
146 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
take a stand. But the true teacher will beware of imposing from the plat-
form any political position upon the student, whether it is expressed
or suggested. 'To let the facts speak for themselves' is the mostunfair
way of putting over a political position to the student.
Why should we abstain from doing this? I state in advance that some
highly esteemed colleagues are of the opinion that it is not possible to
carry through this self-restraint and that, even if it were possible, it
would be a whim to avoid declaring oneself. Now one cannot demon-
strate scientifically what the duty of an academic teacher is. One can
only demand of the teacher that he have the intellectual integrity to see '
that it is one thing to state facts, to determine mathematical or logical
relations or the internal structure of cultural values, while it is another
thing to answer questions of the value of culture and its individual con-
tents and the question of how one should act in the cultural community
and in political associations. These are quite heterogeneous problems. If
he asks further why he should not deal with both types of problems in
the lecture-room, the answer is: because the prophet and the demagogue
do not belong on the academic platform.
To the prophet and tlie demagogue, it is said: 'Go your ways out into
the streets and speak openly to the world,' that is, speak where criticism
is possible. In the lecture -room we stand opposite our audience, and it
has to remain silent. I deem it irresponsible to exploit the circumstance
that for the sake of their career the students have to attend a teacher's
course while there is nobody present to oppose him with criticism. The
task of the teacher is to serve the students with his knowledge and scien-
tific experience and not to imprint upon them his personal political
views. It is certainly possible that the individual teacher will not entirely
succeed in eliminating his personal sympathies. He is then exposed to the
sharpest criticism in the forum of his own conscience. And this deficiency
does not prove anything; other errors are also possible, for instance,
erroneous statements of fact, and yet they prove nothing against the duty
of searching for the truth. I also reject this in the very interest of science.
I am ready to prove from the works of our historians that whenever the
man of science introduces his personal value judgment, a full under-
standing of the facts ceases. But this goes beyond tonight's topic and
would require lengthy elucidation.
I ask only: How should a devout Catholic, on the one hand, and a
Freemason, on the other, in a course on the forms of church and state
or on religious history ever be brought to evaluate these subjects alike?
SCIENCE AS A VOCATION I47
This is out of the question. And yet the academic teacher must desire
and must demand of himself to serve the one as well as the other by his
knowledge and methods. Now you will rightly say that the devout
Catholic will never accept the view of the factors operative in bringing
about Christianity which a teacher who is free of his dogmatic presup-
positions presents to him. Certainly! The difference, however, lies in the
following: Science 'free from presuppositions,' in the sense of a rejection
of religious bonds, does not know of the 'miracle' and the 'revelation.'
If it did, science would be unfaithful to its own 'presuppositions.' The
believer knows both, miracle and revelation. And science -^free from^
presuppositions' expects from him no less — and no more — than acknowl-
edgment that // the process can be explained without those supernatural
interventions, wliich an empirical explanation has to eliminate as causal
factors, the process has to be explained the way science attempts to do.
And the believer can do this without being disloyal to his faith.
But has the contribution of science no meaning at all for a man who
does not care to know facts as such and to whom only the practical
standpoint matters? Perhaps science nevertheless contributes something.
The__primary task of a useful teacher is tojeach his students jtoj-ecog-
nize 'inconvenient' facts — I mean facts that are inconvenient for their
party opinions. And for every party opinion there are facts that are
extremely inconvenient, for my own opinion no less than for others. I
believe the teacher accomplishes more than a mere intellectual task if he
compels his audience to accustom itself to the existence of such facts. I
would be so immodest as even to apply the expression 'moral achieve-
ment,' though perhaps this may sound too grandiose for something
that should go without saying.
Thus far I have spoken only of practical reasons for avoiding the im-
position of a personal point of view. But these are not the only reasons.
The impossibility of 'scientifically' pleading for practical and interested
stands — except in discussing the means for a firmly given and presup-
posed end — rests upon reasons that lie far deeper.
'Scientific' pleading js meaningless in principle because the various',
value spheres of the world stand in irreconcilable conflict with each
other.TTie elder Mill, whose philosophy I will not praise otherwise, was
on this point right when he said: If one proceeds from pure experience,
one arrives at polytheism. This is shallow in formulation and sounds
paradoxical, and yet there is truth in it. If anything, we realize again
today that something can be sacred not only in spite of its not being
148 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
beautiful, but rather because and in so far as it is not beautiful. You
will find this documented in the fifty-third chapter of the book of Isaiah
and in the twenty-first Psalm. And, since Nietzsche, we realize that
something can be beautiful, not only in spite of the aspect in which it is
not good, but rather in that very aspect. You will find this expressed
earlier in the Fl.eurs du mal, as Baudelaire named his volume of poems.
It is commonplace to observe that something may be true although
it is not beautiful and not holy and not good. Indeed it may be true
in precisely those aspects. But all these are only the most elementary
cases of the struggle that the gods of the various orders and values are
engaged in. I do not know how one might wish to decide 'scientifically'
the value of French and German culture; for here, too, different gods
struggle with one another, now and for all times to come. %/ /
We live as did the ancients when their world was not yet disenchanted
of its gods and demons, only we live in a different sense. As Hellenic
man at times sacrificed to Aphrodite and at other times to Apollo, and,
above all, as everybody sacrificed to the gods of his city, so do we still
nowadays, only the bearing of man has been disenchanted and denuded
of its mystical but inwardly genuine plasticity. Fate, and certainly not
'science,' holds sway over these gods and their struggles. One can on|y
understand what the godhead is for the one order or for the ot^er, or
better, what godhead is in the one or in the other order. With_this
understanding, however, the matter has reached its limit so far as it can
be discussed in a lecture-room and by a professprj Yet the great and vital
problem that is contained therein is, of course, very far from being con-
cluded. But forces other than university chairs have their say in this
matter.
What man will take upon himself the attempt to 'refute scientifically'
the ethic of the Sermon on the Mount? For instance, the sentence, 'resist
no evil,' or the image of turning the other cheek? And yet it is clear,
in mundane perspective, that this is an ethic of undignified conduct; one
has to choose between the religious dignity which this ethic confers and
the dignity of manly conduct which preaches something quite different;
'resist evil — lest you be co-responsible for an overpowering evil.' Ac-
cording to our ultimate standpoint, the one is the devil and the other
the God, and the individual has to decide which is God for him and
which is the devil. And so it goes throughout all the orders of life.
The grandiose rationalism of an ethical and methodical conduct of life
which flows from every religious prophecy has dethroned this polytheism
SCIENCE AS A VOCATION I49
in favor of the 'one thing that is needful.' Faced with the realities of
outer and inner life, Christianity has deemed it necessary to make those
compromises and relative judgments, which we all know from its his-
tory. Today the routines of everyday life challenge religion. Many old
gods ascend from their graves; they are disenchanted and hence take
the form of impersonal forces. They strive to gain power over our lives
and again they resume their eternal struggle with one another. What is
hard for modern man, and especially for the younger generation, is to
measure up to workaday existence. The ubiquitous chase for 'experience'
stems from this weakness; for it is weakness not to be able to countenance
the stern seriousness of our fateful times.
Our civilization destines us to realize more clearly these struggles
again, after our eyes have been blinded for a thousand years — ^blinded by
the allegedly or presumably exclusive orientation towards the grandiose
moral fervor of Christian ethics. — '■ /
But enough of these questions which lead far away. Those of our
youth are in error who react to all this by saying, 'Yes, but we happen ,
to come to lectures in order to experience something more than mere
analyses and statements of fact.' The error is that they seek in the pro- ^^A
fessor something different from what stands before them. iThey crave a ,•
leader and not a teacher. But we are placed upon the platform solely ,as_.,.^^-s^/
teachers. And these are two different things, as one can readily see. Permit
me to take you once more to America, because there one can often ob-
serve such matters in their most massive and original shape.
The American boy learns unspeakably less than the German boy.
In spite of an incredible number of examinations, his school life has not
had the significance of turning him into an absolute creature of ex-
aminations, such as the German. For in America, bureaucracy, which
presupposes the cxaminatieai, diploma as a ticket of admission to the
realm of office prebends, is only in its beginnings. The young American
has no respect for anything or anybody, for tradition or for public office —
unless it is for the personal achievement of individual men. This is what
the American calls 'democracy.' This is the meaning of democracy, how-
ever distorted its intent may in reality be, and this intent is what
matters here. The American's conception of the teacher who faces him
is: he sells me his knowledge and his methods for my father's money,
just as the greengrocer sells my mother cabbage. And that is all. To be
sure, if the teacher happens to be a football coach, then, in this field, he is
a leader. But if he is not this (or something similar in a different field
150 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
of sports), he is simply a teacher and nothing more. And no young
American would think of having the teacher sell him a Weltanschauung
or a code of conduct. Now, when formulated in this manner, we should
reject this. But the question is whether there is not a grain of salt
contained in this feeling, which I have deliberately stated in extreme
with some exaggeration.
Fellow students! You come to our lectures and demand from us the
qualities of leadership, and you fail to realize in advance that of a
M hundred professors at least ninety-nine do not and must not claim to
I be football masters in the vital problems of life, or even to be 'leaders'
in matters of conduct. Please, consider that a man's value does not de-
pend on whether or not he has leadership qualities. And in any case, the
qualities that make a man an excellent scholar and academic teacher
are not the qualities that make him a leader to give directions in prac-
tical life or, more specifically, in politics. It is pure accident if a
teacher also possesses this quality, and it is a critical situation if every
teacher on the platform feels himself confronted with the students' ex-
pectation that the teacher should claim this quality. It is still more critical
if it is left to every academic teacher to set himself up as a leader in the
lecture-room. For those who most frequently think of themselves as
leaders often qualify least as leaders. But irrespective of whether they are
or are not, the platform situation simply offers no possibility of proving
themselves to be leaders. The professor who feels called upon to act as a
counselor of youth and enjoys their trust may prove himself a man in
personal human relations with them. And if he feels called upon to in-
tervene in the struggles of world views and party opinions, he may do so
outside, in the market place, in the press, in meetings, in associations,
wherever he wishes. But after all, it is somewhat too convenient to
demonstrate one's courage in taking a stand where the audience and
possible opponents are condemned to silence.
Finally, you will put the question: 'If this is so, what then does
science actually and positively contribute to practical and personal "life".?'
Therewith we are back again at the problem of science as a 'vocation.'
First, of course, science contributes_tojdhe_tech^
life by calculating external objects_as .welLas man's activities. Well, you
will say, that, after all, amounts to no more than the greengrocer of the
American boy. I fully agree.
Second, science can contribute something that the greengrocer can-
not: methods of thinking, the tools and the training for thought. Per-
SCIENCE AS A VOCATION I5I
haps you will say: well, that is no vegetable, but it amounts to no more
than the means for procuring vegetables. Well and good, let us leave it
at that for today.
Fortunately, however, the contribution of science does not reach its
limit with this. We are in a position to help you to a third objective:
to gain clarity. Of course, it is presupposed that we ourselves possess
clarity. As far as~~this is the case, we can make clear to you the
following:
In practice, you can take this or that position when concerned with a
problem of value — for simplicity's sake, please think of social phenomena
as examples. // you take such and such a stand, then, according to scien-
tific experience, you have to use such and such a means in order to
carry out your conviction practically. Now, these means are perhaps
such that you believe you must reject them. Then you simply must
choose between the end and the inevitable means. Does the end 'justify'
the means? Or does it not? The teacher can confront you with the
necessity of this choice. He cannot do more, so long as he wishes to re-
main a teacher and not to become a demagogue. He can, of course,
also tell you that if you want such and such an end, then you must take
into the bargain the subsidiary consequences which according to all
experience will occur. Again we find ourselves in the same situation
as before. These are still problems that can also emerge for the
technician, who in numerous instances has to make decisions according
to the principle of the lesser evil or of the relatively best. Only to him one
thing, the main thing, is usually given, namely, the end. But as soon
as truly 'ultimate' problems are at stake for us this is not the case.
With this, at long last, we come to the final service that science as such
can render to the aim of clarity, and at the same time we come to the
limits of science.
Besides we can and we should state: In terms of its meaning, such
and such a practical stand can be derived with inner consistency, and
hence integrity, from this or that ultimate weltanschauliche position.
Perhaps it can only be derived from one such fundamental position, or
maybe from several, but it cannot be derived from these or those other
positions. Figuratively speaking, you serve this god and you offend the
other god when you decide to adhere to this position. And if you remain
faithful to yourself, you will necessarily come to certain final conclusions
that subjectively make sense. This much, in principle at least, can be
accomplished. Philosophy, as a special discipline, and the essentially
152 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
philosophical discussions of principles in the other sciences attempt to
achieve this. Thus, if we are competent in our pursuit (which must be
presupposed here) we can force the individual, or at least we can help
him, to give himself an account of the ultimate meaning of his own
conduct. This appears to me as not so trifling a thing to do, even for
one's own personal life. Again, I am tempted to say of a teacher who
succeeds in this: he stands in the service of 'moral' forces; he fulfils the
duty of bringing about self-clarification and a sense of responsibility.
And I believe he will be the more able to accomplish this, the more
conscientiously he avoids the desire personally to impose upon or sug-
gest to his audience his own stand.
This proposition, which I present here, always takes its point of
departure from the one fundamental fact, that so long as life remains
immanent and is interpreted in its own terms, it knows only of an un-
ceasing struggle of these gods with one another. Or speaking directly,
the ultimately possible attitudes toward Hfe are irreconcilable, and
hence their struggle can never be brought to a final conclusion. Thus
it is necessary to make a decisive choice. Whether, under such condi-
tions, science is a worth while Vocation' for somebody, and whether
science itself has an objectively valuable Vocation' are again value judg-
ments about which nothing can be said in the lecture-room. To affirm
the value of science is a presupposition for teaching there. I personally
by my very work answer in the affirmative, and I also do so from
precisely the standpoint that hates intellectualism as the worst devil, as
youth does today, or usually only fancies it does. In that case the
word holds for these youths: 'Mind you, the devil is old; grow old to
understand him.' This does not mean age in the sense of the birth
certificate. It means that if one wishes to settle with this devil, one must
not take to flight before him as so many like to do nowadays. First of
all, one has to see the devil's ways to the end in order to realize his power
and his limitations.
Science today is a 'vocation' organized in special disciphnes in the
service of self-clarification and knowledge of interrelated facts. It is not
the gift of grace of seers and prophets dispensing sacred values and
revelations, nor does it partake of the contemplation of sages and phi-
losophers about the meaning of the universe. This, to be sure, is the
inescapable condition of our historical situation. We cannot evade it so
long as we remain true to ourselves. And if Tolstoi's question recurs to
you: as science does not, who is to answer the question: 'What shall we
SCIENCE AS A VOCATION I53
do, and, how shall we arrange our lives?' or, in the words used here
tonight: 'Which of the warring gods should we serve? Or should we
serve perhaps an entirely different god, and who is he?' then one can
say that only a prophet or a savior can give the answers. If there is no
such man, or if his message is no longer believed in, then you will cer-
tainly not compel him to appear on this earth by having thousands of
professors, as privileged hirelings of the state, attempt as petty prophets
in their lecture-rooms to take over his role. All they will accomplish is
to show that they are unaware of the decisive state of affairs: the prophet
for whom so many of our younger generation yearn simply does not
exist. But this knowledge in its forceful significance has never become
vital for them. The inward interest of a truly religiously 'musical' man
can never be served by veiling to him and to others the fundamental
fact that he is destined to live in a godless and prophetless time by
giving him the ersatz of armchair prophecy. The integrity of his re-
ligious organ, it seems to me, must rebel against this.
Now you will be inclined to say: Which stand does one take towards
the factual existence of 'theology' and its claims to be a 'science'? Let us
not flinch and evade the answer. To be sure, 'theology' and 'dogmas' do
not exist universally, but neither do they exist for Christianity alone.
Rather (going backward in time), they exist in highly developed
form also in Islam, in Manicheanism, in Gnosticism, in Orphism, in
Parsism, in Buddhism, in the Hindu sects, in Taoism, and in the
Upanishads, and, of course, in Judaism. To be sure their systematic
development varies greatly. It is no accident that Occidental Christianity
— in contrast to the theological possessions of Jewry — has expanded and
elaborated theology more systematically, or strives to do so. In the Occi-
dent the development of theology has had by far the greatest historical
significance. This is the product of the Hellenic spirit, and all theology
of the West goes back to it, as (obviously) all theology of the East goes
back to Indian thought. All theology represents an intellectual ration-
alization of the possession of sacred values. No science is jbsolutely free i^j
from, presuppositions, and no science can prove its fundamental value
to the man who rej erts th ese pre?^i ippo^sitionsr~Every~tKeology', however,
adds a few specific presuppositions for its work and thus for the justifica-
tion of its^eHstehce. Their meaning and scope vary. Every theology, in-
cluding for instance Hinduist theology, presupposes that the world must
have a meaning, and the question is how to interpret this meaning so
tjiat it is intellectually conceivable.
154 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
It is the same as with Kant's epistemology. He took for his point of
departure the presupposition: 'Scientific truth exists and it is valid7
and then asked: 'Under which presuppositions of thought is truTE^
possible and meaningful?' The modern aestheticians (actually or ex-
pressly, as for instance, G. v. Lukacs) proceed from the presupposition
that 'works of art exist,' and then ask: 'How is their existence meaning-
ful and possible?'
As a rule, theologies, however, do not content themselves with this
(essentially religious and philosophical) presupposition. They regularly
proceed from the further presupposition that certain 'revelations' are
facts relevant for salvation and as such make possible a meaningful
conduct of life. Hence, these revelations must be believed in. Moreover,
theologies presuppose that certain subjective states and acts possess the
quality of holiness, that is, they constitute a way of Ufe, or at least ele-
ments of one, that is religiously meaningful. Then the question of the-
ology is: How can these presuppositions, which must simply be accepted
be meaningfully interpreted in a view of the universe? For theology,
these presuppositions as such lie beyond the limits of 'science.' They do
not represent 'knowledge,' in the usual sense, but rather a 'possession.'
Whoever does not 'possess' faith, or the other holy states, cannot have
theology as a substitute for them, least of all any other science. On the
contrary, in every 'positive' theology, the devout reaches the point where
the Augustinian sentence holds : credo non quod, sed quia absurdum est.
The capacity for the accomplishment of religious virtuosos — the 'intel-
lectual sacrifice' — is the decisive characteristic of the positively religious
man. That this is so is shown by the fact that in spite (or rather in con-
sequence) of theology (which unveils it) the tension between the value-
spheres of 'science' and the sphere of 'the holy' is unbridgeable. Legiti-
mately, only the disciple offers the 'intellectual sacrifice' to the prophet,
the believer to the church. Never as yet has a new prophecy emerged
(and I repeat here deliberately this image which has offended some) by
way of the need of some modern intellectuals to furnish their souls with,
so to speak, guaranteed genuine antiques. In doing so, they happen to
remember that religion has belonged among such antiques, and of all
things religion is what they do not possess. By way of substitute, however,
they play at decorating a sort of domestic chapel with small sacred images
from all over the world, or they produce surrogates through all sorts of
psychic experiences to which they ascribe the dignity of mystic holiness,
which they peddle in the book market. This is plain humbug or self-
SCIENCE AS A VOCATION 1 55
deception. It is, however, no humbug but rather something very sincere
and genuine if some of the youth groups who during recent years have
quietly grown together give their human community the interpretation
of a reUgious, cosmic, or mystical relation, although occasionally perhaps
such interpretation rests on misunderstanding of self. True as it is that
every act of genuine brotherliness may be linked with the awareness
that it contributes something imperishable to a super-personal realm, it
seems to me dubious whether the dignity of purely human and com-
munal relations is enhanced by these religious interpretations. But that
is no longer our theme.
The fate of our times is characterized by rationalization and intel-
lectualization and, above all^__bY^]^e~^disenchantmunr~6f the world.'
Precisely the ultimate and most sublime values have repeated" "fronT
public life either into the transcendental realm of mystic life or into the
brotherliness of direct and personal human relations. It is not accidental
that our greatest art is intimate and not monumental, nor is it accidental
that today only within the smallest and intimate circles, in personal
human situations, in pianissimo, that something is pulsating that corre-
sponds to the prophetic pneuma, which in former times swept through
the great communities like a firebrand, welding them together. If we
attempt to force and to 'invent' a monumental style in art, such miserable
monstrosities are produced as the many monuments of the last twenty
years. If one tries intellectually to construe new religions without a new
and genuine prophecy, then, in an inner sense, something similar will
result, but with still worse effects. And academic prophecy, finally, will
create only fanatical sects but never a genuine community.
To the person who cannot bear the fate of the times like a man, one
must say: may he rather return silently, without the usual publicity
build-up of renegades, but simply and plainly. The arms of the old
churches are opened widely and compassionately for him. After all, they
do not make it hard for him. One way or another he has to bring his
'intellectual sacrifice' — that is inevitable. If he can really do it, we shall
not rebuke him. For such an intellectual sacrifice in favor of an uncon-
ditional religious devotion is ethically quite a different matter than the
evasion of the plain duty of intellectual integrity, which sets in if one
lacks the courage to clarify one's own ultimate standpoint and rather
facilitates this duty by feeble relative judgments. In my eyes, such re-
ligious return stands higher than the academic prophecy, which does not
clearly realize that in the lecture-rooms of the university no other virtue
156 SCIENCE AND POLITICS
holds but plain intellectual integrity. Integrity, however, compels us to
state that for the many who today tarry for new prophets and saviors,
the situation is the same as resounds in the beautiful Edomite watchman's
song of the period of exile that has been included among Isaiah's oracles:
He calleth to me out of Seir, Watchman, what of the night? The watch-
man said, The morning cometh, and also the night: if ye will enquire, en-
quire ye: return, come.
The people to whom this was said has enquired and tarried for more
than two millennia, and we are shaken when we realize its fate. From this
we want to draw the lesson that nothing is gained by yearning and
tarrying alone, and we shall act differently. We shall set to work and
meet the 'demands of the day,' in human relations as well as in our
vocation. This, however, is plain and simple, if each finds and obeys
the demon who holds the fibers of his very life.
Part II
POWER
V I. ^Structures ol x ower
I : The Prestige and Power of the 'Great Powers'
All political structures use force, but they differ in the manner in which -».
and the extent to which they use or threaten to use it against other po-
litical organizations. These differences play a specific role in determining
the form and destiny of political communities. Not all political structures
are equally 'expansive.' They do not all strive for an outward expansion
of their power, or keep their force in readiness for acquiring political
power over other territories and communities by incorporating them or
making them dependent. Hence, as structures of power, political organiza-
tions vary in the extent to which they are turned outward.
The political structure of Switzerland is 'neutralized' through a col-
lective guarantee of the Great Powers. For various reasons, Switzerland
is not very strongly desired as an object for incorporation. Mutual jeal-
ousies existing among neighboring communities of equal strength pro-
tect it from this fate. Switzerland, as well as Norway, is less threatened
than is the Netherlands, which possesses colonies; and the Netherlands
is less threatened than Belgium, for the latter's colonial possessions are
especially exposed, as is Belgium herself in case of war between her
powerful neighbors. Sweden too is quite exposed.
The attitude of political structures towards the outside may be more
'isolationist' or more 'expansive.' And such attitudes change. The power
of poHtical structures has a specific internal dynamic. On the basis of
this power, the members may pretend to a special 'prestige,' and their /^
pretensions may influence the external conduct of the power structures.
Wirtschaft und Gesellschajt (Tubingen, 1922 edition), part iii, chap. 3, pp. 619-30; and
Gesammelte Aufsaetze ztir Soziologie und Sozialpoliti\ (Tubingen, 1924), pp. 484-6.
Wirtschaft und Gesellschajt appeared posthumously (1921) as part of the Grund-
riss fiir Sozialokonomik, handled by J. C. B. Mohr (P. Siebeck), Tubingen. Weber worked
on the descriptive parts of Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft from 1910, and most of the chapters
were essentially written before 1914.
i
1 60 POWER
Experience teaches that claims to prestige have always played into the
origin of wars. Their part is difficult to gauge; it cannot be determined
in general, but it is very obvious. The realm of 'honor,' which is com-
parable to the 'status order' within a social structure, pertains also to the
interrelations of poUtical structures.
Feudal lords, like modern officers or bureaucrats, are the natural and
primary exponents of this desire for power-oriented prestige for one's
own political structure. Power for their political community means
power for themselves, as well as the prestige based on this power.
For the bureaucrat and the officer, an expansion of power, however,
means more office positions, more sinecures, and better opportunities
for promotion. (This last may be the case even for the officer in a lost
war.) For the feudal vassal, expansion of power means the acquisition
of new objects for inteudation and more provisions for his progeny. In
his speech promoting the crusades, Pope Urban focused attention on
these opportunities and not, as has been said, on 'overpopulation.'
Besides and beyond these direct economic interests, which naturally
exist everv where among strata hving off the exercise of poHtical power,
V,the striving for prestige pertains to all specific power structures and hence
to all political structures. This striving is not identical simply with 'na-
tional pride' — of this, more later — and it is not identical with the mere
pride in the excellent quaUties, actual or presimied, of one's own political
community or in the mere possession of such a polit\'. Such pride can be
highly developed, as is the case among the Swiss and the Norwegians,
yet it may actually be strictly isolationist and free from pretension to
political prestige.
The prestige of power, as such, means in practice the glory of power
over other communities; it means the expansion of power, though not
always by way of incorporation or subjection. The big poHtical com-
munities are the natural exponents of such pretensions to prestige.
Every political structure naturally prefers to have weak rather than
strong neighbors. Furthermore, as everv big poHtical community is a
potential aspirant to prestige and a potential threat to all its neighbors,
the big poHtical community, simply because it is big and strong, is la-
tently and constantly endangered. Finally, by virtue of an unavoidable
'dynamic of power,' wherever claims to prestige flame up — and this
normally results from an acute poHtical danger to peace — they chaUenge
and call forth the competition of all other possible bearers of prestige.
The history of the last decade,^ especially the relations between Germany
STRUCTURES OF POWER l6l
and France, shows the prominent effect of this irrational element in all
political foreign relations. The sentiment of prestige is able to strengthen
the ardent belief in the actual existence of one's own might, for this
behef is important for positive self-assurance in case of conflict. Therefore,
all those having vested interests in the political structure tend systemati-
cally to cultivate this prestige sentiment. Nowadays one usually refers
to those polities that appear to be the bearers of power prestige as the
'Great Powers.'
Among a plurality of co-existing polities, some, the Great Powers,
usually ascribe to themselves and usurp an interest in poHtical and
economic processes over a wide orbit. Today such orbits encompass the
whole surface of the planet.
During Hellenic Antiquity, the 'King,' that is, the Persian king, de-
spite his defeat, was the most widely recognized Great Power. Sparta
turned to him in order to impose, with his sanction, the King's Peace
(Peace of Antalcidas) upon the Hellenic world. Later on, before the
establishment of an empire, the Roman poHty assumed such a role.
For general reasons of 'power dynamics' per se, the Great Powers are
very often expansive powers; that is, they are associations aiming at ex-
panding the territories of their respective poHtical communities bv the
use or the threat of force or bv both. Great Powers, however, are not
necessarily and not always oriented towards expansion. Their attitude
in this respect often changes, and in these changes economic factors play
a weighty part.
For a time British policy, for instance, quite deliberately renimciated
further political expansion. It renounced even the retention of colonies
by means of force in favor of a 'Uttle England' poHcy, resting upon an
isolationist limitation and a reHance on an economic primacy held to be
unshakable. Influential representatives of the Roman rule bv notables
would have liked to carry through a similar program of a 'httle Rome'
after the Punic Wars, to restrict Roman pohtical subjection to Italv and
the neighboring islands.
The Spartan aristocrats, so far as they were able, quite deliberately
limited their political expansion for the sake of isolation. They restricted
themselves to the smashing of all other political structures that endan-
gered their power and prestige. They favored the particularism of city
states. Usually, in such cases, and in many similar ones, the ruling groups
of notables (the Roman nobilitv of office, the English and other liberal
notables, the Spartan overlords) harbor more or less distinct fears lest
1 62 POWER
an 'Imperator,' that is, a charismatic war lord, emerge. A tendency to-
wards centraHzation o£ power goes very readily with a chronically con-
quering 'imperialism,' and the war lord might gain the ascendancy at
the expense of the power of the ruling notables.
Like the Romans, the British, after a short time, were forced out of
their policy of self-restraint and pressed into political expansion. This
occurred, in part, through capitalist interests in expansion.
2: The Economic Foundations of 'Imperialism'
yune might be inclined to beUeve that the formation as well as the
expansion of Great Power structures is always and primarily determined
economically. The assumption that trade, especially if it is intensive and
if it already exists in an area, is the normal prerequisite and the reason
for its poHtical unification might readily be generalized. In individual
cases this assumption does actually hold. The example of the Zollverein "
lies close at hand, and there are numerous others. Closer attention, how-
ever, very often reveals that this coincidence is not a necessary oneTand
that the causal nexus by no means always points in a single direction.
Germany, for instance, has been made into a unified economic terri-
tory only through custom frontiers at her borders, which, in their course,
were determined in a purely political manner.i/If the inhabitants of a
territory seek to sell their products primarily in their own market, we
may speak of an economically unified territory. Were all custom barriers
eliminated, the economically determined market for the Eastern German
cereal surplus, poor in gluten, would not be Western Germany but
rather England. The economically determined market of the mining
products and the heavy iron goods of Western Germany is by no means
Eastern Germany; and Western Germany is not, in the main, the eco-
nomically determined supplier of the industrial products for Eastern
Germany. Above all, the interior lines of communications (railroads) of
Germany would not be — and, in part, are not now — economically deter-
mined routes for transporting heavy goods between east and west.
Eastern Germany, however, would be the economic location for strong
industries, the economically determined market and hinterland for
which would be the whole of Western Russia. Such industries are now ^
cut off by Russian custom barriers and have been moved to Poland,
directly behind the Russian custom frontier. Through this development,
as is known, the political Anschluss of the Russian Poles to the Russian
STRUCTURES OF POWER 1 63
imperial idea, which seemed to be poHtically out o£ the question, has
been brought into the realm of possibility. Thus, in this case, purely
economically determined market relations have a politically unifying
effect.
Germany, however, has been politically united against the economic
determinants as such. It is not unusual for the frontiers of a polity to
conflict with the mere geographically given location of industries; the
political frontiers may encompass an area that, in terms of economic
factors, strives to separate from it. In such situations, tensions between
economic interests nearly always arise. However, if the political bond is
once created, it is very often, yet not always, so incomparably stronger
that under otherwise favorable conditions (e.g. the existence of a com-
mon language) nobody would even think of political separation because
of such economic tensions. This applies, for instance, to Germany.
'' The formation of great states does not always follow the routes of
export trade, although nowadays we are inclined to see things in this
imperialist wayi As a rule, the 'continental' imperialism — European, Rus-
sian, and American — just like the 'overseas imperialism' of the British
and of those modeled after it, follow the tracks of previously existing
capitalist interests, especially in foreign areas that are politically weak.
And of course, at least for the formation of great overseas dominions of
the past — in the overseas empires of Athens, Carthage, and Rome — export
trade played its decisive part.
Yet, even in these state organizations of Antiquity other economic inter-
ests were at least of equal and often of far greater importance than were
commercial profits: ground rents, farmed-out taxes, office fees, and simi-
lar gains were especially desired. In foreign trade, in turn, the interest in
selling within foreign territories definitely receded into the background
as a motive for expansion. In the age of modern capitalism the interest
in exporting to foreign territories is dominant, but in the ancient states
the interest was rather in the possession of territories from which goods
(raw materials) could be imported.
Among the great states that have formed on the inland plains, the ex-
change of goods played no regular or decisive part. The trading of goods
was most relevant for the river-border states of the Orient, especially for
Egypt; that is, for states that in this respect were similar to overseas states.
The 'empire' of the Mongols, however, certainly did not rest on any
intensive trade in goods. There, the mobility of the ruling stratum
of horsemen made up for the lack of material means of communication
164 POWER
and made centralized administration possible. Neither the Chinese, nor
the Persian, nor the Roman Empire after its transition from a coastal
to a continental empire, originated and maintained itself on the basis
of a pre-existing and a particularly intensive inland traffic in goods or
highly developed means of communication. The continental expansion
of Rome was undoubtedly very strongly, though not exclusively, deter-
mined by capitalist interests; and these interests were above all the
interests of tax-farmers, office hunters, and land speculators. They were
not, in the first place, the interests of groups pursuing a particularly in-
tensive trade in goods.
The expansion of Persia was not in any way served by capitalist inter-
est groups. Such groups did not exist there as motivating forces or as
pace-makers, and just as little did they serve the founders of the Chi-
nese Empire or the founders of the Carolingian Monarchy,
Of course, even in these cases, the economic importance of trade was
not altogether absent; yet other motives have played their part in every
political overland expansion of the past, including the Crusades. These
motives have included the interest in higher princely incomes, in preb-
ends, fiefs, offices, and social honors for the vassals, knights, officers,
officials, the younger sons of hereditary officeholders, and so on. The
interests of trading seaports have not, of course, been so decisive as has
overland expansion, although they were important as additional factors
playing their secondary parts. The First Crusade was mainly an overland
campaign.
By no means has trade always pointed the way for political expansion.
The causal nexus has very often been the reverse. Among the empires
named above, those which had an administration technically able to
establish at least overland means of communication did so for adminis-
trative purposes. In principle, this has often been the exclusive purpose,
regardless of whether or not the means of communication were ad-
vantageous for existing or future trading needs.
^ Under present-day conditions, Russia may well be considered a polity
whose means of communication (railroads today) have been primarily
determined not economically but rather politically. /The Austrian south-
ern railroad, however, is another example. (Its shares are still called
'lombards,' a term loaded with political reminiscences.) And there is
hardly a polity without 'strategic railroads,' Nevertheless, great achieve-
ments of this kind have been made with the concomitant expectation
of a traffic giiaranteeing long-run profitableness. It was no different in
STRUCTURES OF POWER 1 65
the past: it cannot be proved that the ancient Roman miUtary highroads
served a commercial purpose; and it certainly was not the case for the
Persian and Roman mail posts, which served exclusively political pur-
poses, ifi spite of this, however, the development of trade in the past has
of course been the normal result of political unification. Political uni-
fication first placed trade upon an assured and guaranteed legal basis.
Even this rule, however, is not without exceptions. For, besides depend-
ing on pacification and formal guarantees of law enforcement, the de-
velopment of trade has been bound to certain economic conditions (espe-
cially the development of capitalism).
The evolution of capitalism may be strangled by the manner in which
a unified political structure is administered. This was the case, for in-
stance, in the late Roman Empire. Here a unified structure took the
place of a league of city states; it was based upon a strong subsistence
agrarian economy. This increasingly made for liturgies as the way of
raising the means for the army and the administration; and these directly
suffocated capitalism.
Yet, if trade in itself is by no means the decisive factor in political
expansion, the economic structure in general does co-determine the extent
and manner of political expansion. Besides women, cattle, and slaves,
scarce land is one of the original and foremost objects of forceful acquisi-
tion. For conquering peasant communities, the natural way is to take the
land directly and to wipe out its settled population.
The Teutonic people's movement has, on the whole, taken this course
only to a moderate degree. As a compact mass, this movement probably
went somewhat beyond the present linguistic frontiers, but only in scat-
tered zones. How far a 'land scarcity,' caused by overpopulation, con-
tributed, how far the political pressure of other tribes, or simply good
opportunities, must be left open. In any case, some of the individual
groups who went out for conquest over a long period of time reserved
their claims to the arable land back home, in case they should return. The
.^and of foreign territories has been politically incorporated in more or
less violent fashion. /
Since land is important for the way in which the victor will exploit
his rights, it also plays an important role for other economic structures.
As Franz Oppenheimer again and again has rightly emphasized, ground
rent is frequently the product of violent political subjection. Given a
subsistence economy and a feudal structure this subjection means, of
course, that the peasantry of the incorporated area will not be wiped
1 66 POWER
out but rather will be spared and made tributary to the conqueror, who
becomes the landlord. This has happened wherever the army was no
longer a V olkjheerbann composed of self-equipped freemen, or yet a
mercenary or bureaucratic mass army, but rather an army of self-
equipped knights, as was the case with the Persians, the Arabs, the Turks,
the Normans, and the Occidental feudal vassals in general.
The interest in ground rent has also meant a great deal for plutocratic
trading communities engaged in conquest. As commercial profits were
preferably invested in land and in indebted bondsmen, the normal aim of
warfare, even in Antiquity, was to gain fertile land fit to yield ground
rent. The Lelantine War,'* which marked a sort of epoch in early Hellenic
history, was almost wholly carried on at sea and among trading cities.
But the original object of dispute between the leading patricians of
Chalcis and Eretria, besides tributes of various sorts, was the fertile
Lelantine plain. One of the most important privileges that the Attic
Maritime League evidently offered to the demos of the ruling city was
to break up the land monopoly of the subject cities. The Athenians were
to receive the right to acquire and mortgage land anywhere.
The establishment of commercitim among cities allied to Rome meant
in practice the same thing. Also, the overseas interests of the mass of
Italics settled throughout the Roman sphere of influence certainly repre-
sented, at least in part, land interests of an essentially capitalist nature,
as we know them from the Verrinic speeches.
During its expansion, the capitalist interest in land may come into
conflict with the land interest of the peasantry. Under a policy of expan-
sion, such a conflict has played its part in the struggles between the
Roman estates in the long epoch ending with the Gracchi. The big hold-
ers of money, cattle, and men naturally wished the newly gained land
to be dealt with as public land for lease {ager publicus). As long as the
regions were not too remote, the peasants demanded that the land be
partitioned in order to provide for their progeny. The compromises be-
tween these two interests are distinctly reflected in tradition, although the
details are certainly not very reliable.
Rome's overseas expansion, as far as it was economically determined,
shows features that have since recurred in basic outline again and
again and which still recur today. These features occurred in Rome in
pronounced fashion and in gigantic dimensions, for the first time in
history. However fluid the transitions to other types may be, these
'Roman' features are peculiar to a specific type of capitalist relations,
STRUCTURES OF POWER 1 67
or rather, they provide the conditions for the existence of this specific
type, which we wish to call imperialist capitalism.
These features are rooted in the capitalist interests of tax-farmers, of
state creditors, of suppliers to the state, of overseas traders privileged
by the state, and of colonial capitalists. The profit opportunities of all
these groups rest upon the direct exploitation of executive powers, that is,
of political power directed towards expansion.
By forcibly enslaving the inhabitants, or at least tying them to the
soil {glebae adscriptio) and exploiting them as plantation labor, the
acquisition of overseas colonies brings tremendous opportunities for
profit for capitalist interest-groups. The Carthaginians seem to have
been the first to have arranged such an organization on a large scale;
the Spaniards in South America, the English in the Southern States of
the Union, and the Dutch in Indonesia were the last to do it in the grand
manner. The acquisition of overseas colonies also facilitates the forceful
monopolization of trade with these colonies and possibly with other
areas. Wherever the administrative apparatus of the polity is not suited
for the collection of taxes from the newly occupied territories — of this,
later — the taxes give opportunities for profit to capitalist tax-farmers.
The material implements of war may be part of the equipment pro-
vided by the army itself, as is the case in pure feudalism. But if these im-
plements are furnished by the polity, rather than by the army, then ex-., f
pansion through war and the procurement of armaments to prepare for '
war represent by far the most profitable occasion for the raising of loans
on the largest scale. The profit opportunities of capitalist state creditors
then increase. Even during the Second Punic War capitalist state credi-
tors prescribed their own conditions to the Roman polity.
Where the ultimate state creditors are a mass stratum of state rentiers
(bondholders), such credits provide profit opportunities for bond-issuing
banks, as is characteristic of our day. The interests of those who supply
the materials of war point in the same direction. In all this, economic
forces interested in the emergence of military conflagrations per se, no
matter what be the outcome for their own community, are called into
life.
Aristophanes distinguished between industries interested in war and
industries interested in peace, although, as is evident from his enumera-
tion, the center of gravity in his time was still the self-equipped army.
The individual citizen gave orders to artisans such as the sword-maker
and the armourer. But even then the large private commercial store-
1 68 POWER
houses, often designated as 'factories,' were above all stores of armaments.
Today the polity as such is almost the sole agent to order war material
and the engines of war. This enhances the capitalist nature of the
process. Banks, which finance war loans, and today large sections of
heavy industry are quand meme economically interested in warfare; the
direct suppliers of armour plates and guns are not the only ones so
interested^'A lost war, as well as a successful war, brings increased busi-
ness to these banks and industries.
The partners within a polity are politically and economically interested
in the existence of large home factories for war engines. This interest
compels them to allow these factories to provide the whole world with
their products, political opponents included.
The extent to which the interests of imperialist capitalism are counter-
balanced depends above all on the profitableness of imperialism as com-
pared with the capitalist interests of pacifist orientation, in so far as purely
capitalist motives here play a direct part. And this in turn is closely
connected with the extent to which economic needs are satisfied by a
private or a collective economy. The relation between the two is highly
decisive for the nature of expansive economic tendencies backed up by
political communities.
In general and at all times, imperialist capitalism, especially colonial
booty capitahsm based on direct force and compulsory labor, has offered
by far the greatest opportunities for profit. They have been greater by far
than those normally open to industrial enterprises which worked for
exports and which oriented themselves to peaceful trade with members
of other polities. Therefore, imperialist capitalism has always existed
wherever to any relevant degree the polity per se, or its subdivisions
(municipalities), has engaged in a public collective economy for satisfying
demands. The stronger such collective economy has been, the more
important imperialist capitalism has been.
Increasing opportunities for profit abroad emerge again today, espe-
cially in territories that are 'opened up' politically and economically,
that is, brought into the specifically modern forms of public and private
'enterprise.' These opportunities spring from 'public commissions' of
arms; from railroad and other construction tasks carried out by the
polity or by builders endowed with monopoly rights; from monopolist
organizations for the collection of levies for trade and industry; from
monopolist concessions; and from government loans.
Such opportunities for profits may be more important and may be
STRUCTURES OF POWER 169
gained at the expense of profits from the usual private trade. The more
that pubhc, collective enterprises gain in economic importance as a gen-
eral form of supplying needs, the more this preponderance increases. This
tendency is directly paralleled by the tendency of politically backed eco-
nomic expansion and competition among individual polities whose part-
ners control investment capital. They aim at securing for themselves
such monopolies and shares in public commissions. And the importance
of the mere 'open door' for the private importation of goods recedes into
the background.
The safest way of guaranteeing these monopolized profit opportunities
to the members of one's own polity is to occupy it or at least to subject
the foreign political power in the form of a 'protectorate' or some such
arrangement. Therefore, this\ 'imperiaUst' tendency increasingly displaces
the 'pacifist' tendency of expansion; which aims merely at 'freedom of
trade.' The latter gained the upper hand only so long as the organization
of supply by private capitalism shifted the optimum of capitalist profit
opportunities towards pacifist trade and not towards monopolist trade,
or at least trade not monopolized by political power.
The universal revival of 'imperialist' capitalism, which has always been
the normal form in which capitalist interests have influenced poHtics,
and the revival of political drives for expansion are thus not accidental.
For the predictable future, the prognosis will have to be made in their
favor.
This situation would hardly change fundamentally if for a moment
we were to make the mental experiment of assuming the individual , ^
polities to be somehow 'state-socialist' communities, that is, associations
supplying a maximum amount of their needs through a collective
economy. All political associations of such a collective economy would
seek to buy as cheaply as possible indispensable goods not produced on
their own territory (cotton in Germany, for instance) from communities
that have natural monopolies which these communities would seek to
exploit. It is probable that force would be used where it would lead
easily to favorable conditions of exchange; the weaker party would
thereby be obliged to pay tribute, if not formally then at least actually.
For the rest, one cannot see why the strong state-socialist communities
should disdain to squeeze tribute out of the weaker communities for
their own partners where they could do so, just as happened everywhere /Tv
during early history.
1 70 POWER
Economically, in a polity without state-socialism the 'mass' of partners
need be as little interested in pacifism as is any single stratum.
The Attic demos— and not they alone— lived economically ofl war.
War brought them soldiers' pay and, in case of victory, tribute from the
subjects. This tribute was actually distributed among the full citizens in
the hardly veiled form of attendance-fees at popular assemblies, court
hearings, and public festivities. Here, every full citizen could directly
grasp the interest in imperialist policy and power. Nowadays, the yields
flowing from abroad to the partners of a polity, including those of im-
perialist origin and those actually representing 'tribute,' do not result in
a constellation of interests so comprehensible to the masses. For under
the present economic order, the tribute to 'creditor nations' assumes the
form of interest payments on debts or of capital profits transferred from
abroad to the propertied strata of the 'creditor nation.' Were one to think
these tributes cancelled for countries like England, France, and Germany,
it would mean a very palpable decline of purchasing power for home
products. This would influence the labor market of the respective work-
ers in an unfavorable manner.
In spite of this,Tabor in creditor nations is of strongly pacifist mind
and on the whole shows no interest whatsoever in the continuation and
compulsory collection of such tributes from foreign debtor communities
that are in arrears.\ Nor does labor show an interest in forcibly participat-
ing in the exploitation of foreign colonial territories and in sharing public
commissions. If this is the case, it is a natural outcome of the immediate
class situation, on the one hand, and, on the other, of the internal social
and political situation of communities in a capitalist era. Those entitled
to tribute belong to the opponent class, who dominate the community.
Every successful imperialist policy of coercing the outside normally — or
at least at first — also strengthens the domestic 'prestige' and therewith
the power and influence of those classes, status groups, and parties, under
whose leadership the success has been attained.
In addition to the sources determined by the social and political con-
stellation, there are economic sources of pacifist sympathy among the
masses, especially among the proletariat. Every investment of capital in
the production of war engines and war material creates job and income
opportunities; every administrative agency may become a factor directly
contributing to prosperity in a particular case and, even more so, indirectly
contributing to prosperity by increasing demand and fostering the inten-
sity of business enterprise. This may become a source of enhanced confi-
STRUCTURES OF POWER IJl
dence in the economic opportunities of the participating industries, which
may lead to a speculative boom.
The administration, however, withdraws capital from alternate uses
and makes it more difficult to satisfy demands in other fields. Above all,
the means of war are raised by way of levies, which the ruling strata, by
virtue of their social and political power, usually know how to transfer
to the masses, quite apart from the limits set to the regimentation of
property for 'mercantilist' considerations.
Countries little burdened by military expenses (the United States) and
especially the small countries (Switzerland, for example) often experience
a stronger economic expansion than do other Powers. Moreover, occa-
sionally small countries are more readily admitted to the economic exploi-
tation of foreign countries because they do not arouse the fear that po-
litical intervention might follow economic intrusion.
Experience shows that the pacifet interests of petty bourgeois and pro-
letarian strata very often and very easily fail. This is partly because of
the easier accessibility of all unorganized 'masses' to emotional influences
and partly because of the indefinite notion (which they entertain) of
some unexpected opportunity somehow arising through war. Specific
interests, like the hope entertained in overpopulated countries of acquir-
ing territories for emigration, are, of course, also important in this con-
nection. Another contributing cause is the fact that the 'masses,' in con-
trast to other interest-groups, subjectively risk a smaller stake in the game.
In case of a lost war, the 'monarch' has to fear for his throne, republican
power-holders and groups having vested interests in a 'republican consti-
tution' have to fear the victorious 'general.' The majority of the proper-
tied bourgeoisie have to fear economic loss from the brakes' being placed
upon 'business as usual.' Under certain circumstances, should disorganiza-
tion follow defeat, the ruling stratum of notables has to fear a violent
shift in power in favor of the propertyless. The 'masses' as such, at least
in their, subjective conception and in the extreme case, have nothing
concrete to lose but their lives. The valuation and effect of this danger
strongly fluctuates in their own minds. On the whole, it can easily be
reduced to zero through emotional influence.
3: The Nation
' The fervor cf this emotional influence does not, in the main, have
an economic origin. It is based upon sentiments of prestige, which often
^
172 POWER
extend deep down to the petty bourgeois masses of political structures
rich in the historical attainment of power-positions. The attachment to
all this poHtical prestige may fuse with a specific belief in responsibilty
towards succeeding generations. The great power structures per se are
then held to have a responsibility of their own for the way in which
power and prestige are distributed between their own and foreign polities.
It goes without saying that all those groups who hold the power to
steer common conduct within a polity will most strongly instill them-
selves with this ideal fervor of power prestige. They remain the specific
and most reliable bearers of the idea of the state as an imperialist power
structure demanding unqualified devotion.
/ In addition to the direct and material imperialist interests, discussed
above, there are partly indirect and material and partly ideological in-
terests of strata that are in various ways intellectually privileged within
a polity and, indeed, privileged by its very existence.' They comprise
especially all those who think of themselves as being the specific 'partners'
of a specific 'culture' diflfused among the members of the polity. Under
the influence of these circles, the naked prestige of power' is unavoidably
transformed into other special fo: ms of prestige and especially into the
idea of the 'nation.'
If the concept of 'nation' can in any way be defined unambiguously, it
certainly cannot be stated in terms of empirical qualities common to those
who count as members of the nation. In the sense of those using the term
at a given time, the concept undoubtedly means, above all, that one may
exact from certain groups of men a specific sentiment of solidarity in the
face of other groups. Thus, the concept belongs in the sphere of values.
Yet, there is no agreement on how these groups should be delimited or
about what concerted action should result from such solidarity.
In ordinary language, 'nation' is, first of all, not identical with the
'people of a state,' that is, with the membership of a given polity. Numer-
ous polities comprise groups among whom the independence of their
'nation' is emphatically asserted in the face of the other groups; or, on
the other hand, they comprise parts of a group whose members declare
this group to be one homogeneous 'nation' (Austria before 1918, for ex-
ample). Furthermore, a 'nation' is not identical with a community speak-
ing the same language; that this by no means always suliices is indicated
by the Serbs and Croats, the North Americans, the Irish, and the English.
On the contrary, a common language does not seem to be absolutely
STRUCTURES OF POWER' I73
necessary to a 'nation.' In official documents, besides 'Swiss People' one
also finds the phrase 'Swiss Nation.' And some language groups do not
think of themselves as a separate 'nation,' for example, at least until re-
cently, the white Russians. The pretension, however, to be considered a
special 'nation' is regularly associated with a common language as a cul-
ture value of the masses; this is predominantly the case in the classic
country of language conflicts, Austria, and equally so in Russia and in
eastern Prussia. But this linkage of the common language and 'nation' is
of varying intensity; for instance, it is very low in the United States'. as
well as in Canada.
. 'National' solidarity among men speaking the same language may be
just as well rejected as accepted. Solidarity, instead, may be linked
with differences in the other great 'culture value of the masses,' namely,
a religious creed, as is the case with the Serbs and Croats. National
solidarity may be connected with differing social structure and mores
and hence with 'ethnic' elements, as is the case with the German Swiss
and the Alsatians in the face of the Germans of the Reich, or with the
Irish facing the British. Yet above all, national solidarity may be linked
to memories of a common political destiny with other nations, among
the Alsatians with the French since the revolutionary war which repre-
sents their common heroic age, just as among the Baltic Barons with the
Russians whose political destiny they helped to steer. ^'
It goes without saying that 'national' affiliation need not be based upon
common blood. Indeed, everywhere the especially radical 'nationalists'
are often of foreign descent. Furthermore, although a specific common
anthropological type is not irrelevant to nationality, it is neither sufficient
nor a prerequisite to found a nation. Nevertheless, the idea of the 'na-
tion' is apt to include the notions of common descent and of an essen- [ /r -.
tial, though frequently indefinite, homogeneity. The nation has these no-
tions in common with the sentiment of solidarity of ethnic communities,
which is also nourished from various sources. But the sentiment of ethnic
solidarity does not by itself make a 'nation.' Undoubtedly, even the white
Russians in the face of the Great Russians have always had a sentiment of
ethnic solidarity, yet even at the present time they would hardly claim
to qualify as a separate 'nation.' The Poles of Upper Silesia, until re-
cently, had hardly any feeling of solidarity with the 'Polish Nation.' They
felt themselves to be a separate ethnic group in the face of the Germans,
but for the rest they were Prussian subjects and nothing else.
Whether the Jews may be called a 'nation' is an old problem. The mass
Hn
174 POWER
o£ the Russian Jews, the assimilating West-European-American Jews, the
Zionists — these would in the main give a negative answer. In any case,
their answers would vary in nature and extent. In particular, the ques-
tion would be answered very differently by the peoples of their environ-
ment, for example, by the Russians on the one side and by the Americans
on the other — or at least by those Americans who at the present time still
maintain American and Jewish nature to be essentially similar, as an
American President has asserted in an official document.
Those German-speaking Alsatians who refuse to belong to the German
'nation' and who cultivate the memory of political union with France do
not thereby consider themselves simply as members of the French 'na-
tion.' The Negroes of the United States, at least at present, consider
themselves members of the American 'nation,' but they will hardly ever
be so considered by the Southern Whites.
Only fifteen years ago, men knowing the Far East, still denied that
the Chinese qualified as a 'nation'; they held them to be only a 'race.' Yet
today, not only the Chinese political leaders but also the very same ob-
servers would judge differently. 'Thus it seems that a group of people
J under certain conditions may attain the quality of a nation through
'^'. specific behavior, or they may claim this quality as an 'attainment' — and
i within short spans of time at that.
There are, on the other hand, social groups that profess indifference to,
and even directly relinquish, any evaluational adherence to a single na-
tion. At the present time, certain leading strata of the class movement of
the modern proletariat consider such indifference and relinquishment to
be an accomplishment. Their argument meets with varying success, de-
pending upon political and linguistic affiliations and also upon different
strata of the proletariat; on the whole, their success is rather diminishing
at the present time.
An unbroken scale of quite varied and highly changeable attitudes to-
ward the idea of the 'nation' is to be found among social strata and also
within single groups to whom language usage ascribes the quality of
'nations.' The scale extends from emphatic affirmation to emphatic nega-
tion and finally complete indifference, as may be characteristic of the
citizens of Luxembourg and of nationally 'unawakened' peoples. Feudal
strata, strata of officials, entrepreneurial bourgeois strata of various cate-
gories, strata of 'intellectuals' do not have homogeneous or historically
constant attitudes towards the idea.
The reasons for the belief that one represents a nation vary greatly,
STRUCTURES OF POWER I75
just as does the empirical conduct that actually results from affiliation or
lack of it with a nation. The 'national sentiments' of the German, the
Englishman, the North American, the Spaniard, the Frenchman, or the
Russian do not function in an identical manner. Thus, to take only the
simplest illustration, national sentiment is variously related to political
associations, and the 'idea' of the nation may become antagonistic to the
empirical scope of given poUtical associations. This antagonism may lead
to quite different results.
Certainly the Italians in the Austrian state-association would fight
Italian troops only if coerced into doing so. Large portions of the Ger-
man Austrians would today fight against Germany only with the great-
est reluctance; they could not be relied upon. The German Americans,
however, even those valuing their 'nationality' most highly, would fight
against Germany, not gladly, yet, given the occasion, unconditionally.
The Poles in the German State would fight readily against a Russian
Polish army but hardly against an autonomous Polish army. The Austrian
Serbs would fight against Serbia with very mixed feelings and only in
the hope of attaining common autonomy. The Russian Poles would fight
more reliably against a German than against an Austrian army.
V It is a well-known historical fact that within the same nation the in-
tensity of solidarity felt toward the outside is changeable and varies
greatly in strengths On the whole, this sentiment has grown even where
internal conflicts of interest have not diminished. Only sixty years ago
the Kreuzzeitung^ still appealed to the intervention of the emperor of
Russia in internal German affairs; today, in spite of increased class
antagonism, this would be difficult to imagine.
In any case, the differences in national sentiment are both significant
and fluid and, as is the case in all other fields, fundamentally different
answers are given to the question: What conclusions are a group of
people willing to draw from the 'national sentiment' found among them }
No matter how emphatic and subjectively sincere a pathos may be formed
among them, what sort of specific joint action are they ready to develop.''
The extent to which in the diaspora a convention is adhered to as a
'national' trait varies just as much as does the importance of common
conventions for the belief in the existence of a separate 'nation.' In the
face of these value concepts of the 'idea of the nation,' which empirically
are entirely ambiguous, a sociological typology would have to analyze all
sorts of community sentiments of solidarity in their genetic conditions
176 POWER
and in their consequences for the concerted action of the participants.
This cannot here be attempted.
Instead, we shall have to look a little closer into the fact that the
.^dea of the nation for its advocates stands in very intimate relation to
'prestige' interests. The earliest and most energetic manifestations of the
idea, in some form, even though it may have been veiled, have contained
the legend of a providential 'mission.' Those to whom the representatives
of the idea zealously turned were expected to shoulder this mission. An-
other element of the early idea was the notion that this mission was
facilitated solely through the very cultivation of the peculiarity of the
group set off as a nation. Therewith, in so far as its self-justification is
sought in the value of its content, this mission can consistently be
thought of only as a specific 'culture' mission. The significance of the
'nation' is usually anchored in the superiority, or at least the irreplaceabil-
ity, of the culture values that are to be preserved and developed only
through the cultivation of the peculiarity of the group. It therefore goes
without saying that the intellectuals, as we have in a preliminary fashion
called them, are to a specific degree predestined to propagate the 'national
idea,' just as those who wield power in the polity provoke the idea of
the state.
By 'intellectuals' we understand a group of men who by virtue of their
peculiarity have special access to certain achievements considered to be
'culture values,' and who therefore usurp the leadership of a 'culture
community.' ^
* * #
In so far as there is at all a common object lying behind the obviously
ambiguous term 'nation,' it is apparently located in the field of politics.)
One might well define the concept of nation in the following way: a
nation is a community of sentiment which would adequately manifest
itself in a state of its own; hence, a nation is a community which
normally tends to produce a state of its own.
The causal components that lead to the emergence of a national
sentiment in this sense may vary greatly. If we for once disregard re-
ligious belief— which has not yet played its last role in this matter, espe-
cially among Serbs and Croats— then common purely political destinies
have first to be considered. Under certain conditions, otherwise hetero-
geneous peoples can be melted together through common destinies. The
reason for the Alsatians' not feeling themselves as belonging to the
German nation has to be sought in their memories. Their political
STRUCTURES OF POWER I77
destiny has taken its course outside the German sphere for too long;
their heroes are the heroes of French history. If the custodian of the
Kolmar museum wants to show you which among his treasures he cher-
ishes most, he takes you away from Griinewald's altar to a room filled
with tricolors, pompier, and other helmets and souvenirs of a seemingly
most insignificant nature; they are from a time that to him is a heroic
age.
An existing state organization whose heroic age is not felt as such
by the masses can nevertheless be decisive for a powerful sentiment of
solidarity, in spite of the greatest internal antagonisms. The state is
valued as the agency that guarantees security, and this is above all the
case in times of external danger, when sentiments of national solidarity
flare up, at least intermittently. Thus we have seen how the elements
of the Austrian state, which apparently strove to separate without re-
gard for consequences, united during the so-called Nibelung danger."
It was not only the officials and officers, who were interested in the state
as such, who could be relied upon, but also the masses of the army.
The conditions of a further component, namely, the influence of race,
is especially complex. Here we had better disregard entirely the mystic
effects of a community of blood, in the sense in which the racial fanati-
cists use the phrase. The differences among anthropological types are
but one factor of closure, social attraction, and repulsion. They stand
with equal right beside differences acquired through tradition. There
are characteristic differences in these matters. Every Yankee accepts the
civilized quarter-breed or octoroon Indian as a member of the nation; he
may himself claim to have Indian blood. But he behaves quite differently
toward the Negro, and he does so especially when the Negro adopts
the same way of life as he and therewith develops the same social aspira-
tions. How can we explain this fact.''
Aesthetic aversions may come into play. The 'odor of Negroes,' how-
ever, of which so many fables are told, is, according to my experience,
not to be discovered. Black wet-nurses, black coachmen riding shoulder
to shoulder with the lady steering the cabriolet, and above all, several
million mixed bloods are all too clear proof against the allegedly natural
repulsion between these races. This aversion is social in nature, and I
have heard but one plausible explanation for it: the Negroes have been
slaves; the Indians have not.
Of those cultural elements that represent the most important positive
basis for the formation of national sentiment everywhere, a common
lyS POWER
language takes first place. But even a common language is not entirely
indispensable nor sufficient by itself. One may state that there was a
specific Swiss national sentiment in spite of the lack of common lan-
guage; and, in spite of a common language, the Irish have no common
national sentiment with the British. The importance of language is neces-
sarily increasing along with the democratization of state, society, and
culture. For the masses a common language plays a more decisive eco-
nomic part than it does for the propertied strata of feudal or bourgeois
stamp. For these latter, at least in the language areas of an identical cul-
ture, usually speak the foreign language, whereas the petty bourgeois
and the proletarian in a foreign language area are much more dependent
upon cohesion with those speaking the same language. Above all, the
language, and that means the literature based upon it, is the first and
for the time being the only cultural value at all accessible to the masses
who ascend toward participation in culture. The enjoyment of art re-
quires a far greater degree of education, and art has a far more aristo-
cratic nature than has literature. This is precisely the case in literature's
greatest achievements. It is for this reason that the notion held in Austria
that democratization must soften the language conflicts was so Utopian.
The facts have, in the meanwhile, thoroughly disproved such notions.
Common cultural values can provide a unifying national bond. But for
this the objective quality of the cultural values does not matter at all, and
therefore one must not conceive of the 'nation' as a 'culture community.'
\ Newspapers, which certainly do not assemble what is most sublime in
literary culture, cement the masses most strongly.j Concerning the actual
social conditions that make for the rise of a unified literary language
and for a literature in the vernacular, which is something else, all re-
search is now only in its beginnings. For the case of France, one may
refer to the essays of my esteemed friend Vossler.
I should like to point to only one typical supporter of this development,
because it is one seldom recognized as such, namely, women. They con-
tributed specifically to the formation of national sentiment linked to
language. An erotic lyric addressed to a woman can hardly be written
in a foreign language, because then it would be unintelligible to the ad-
dressee. The courtly and chivalrous lyric was neither singular, nor always
the first literature to displace Latin by the national language, as happened
in France, Italy, Germany, or to displace Chinese, as happened in Japan.
Nevertheless, the courtly lyric has frequently and permanently done so,
and has subHmated national languages into literary languages. I cannot
STRUCTURES OF POWER 1 79
here describe how after this initial displacement the importance of the
vernacular steadily progressed under the influence of the broadening
administrative tasks of state and church, hence as the language of ad-
ministration and of the sermon. I may, however, add one more word
about the economic determination of modern language conflicts.
Today quite considerable pecuniary and capitalist interests are
anchored in the maintenance and cultivation of the popular language:
the interests of the publishers, editors, authors, and the contributors to
books and periodicals and, above all, to newspapers. Once Polish and
Latvian newspapers existed, the language fight conducted by govern-
ments or ruling strata of another language community had become as
good as hopeless, for reasons of state are powerless against these forces.
And to the interests in profits of the capitalist another material interest
of great weight has to be added: the bilingual candidates in competing
for office throw their bilingualism into the balance and seek to lay claim
upon as large an area of patronage as possible. This occurred among
the Czechs in Austria with their surplus of intellectual proletariat bred
en masse. The tendency as such is old.
The conciliar, and at the same time nationalist, reaction against the
universalism of the papacy in the waning Middle Ages had its origin,
to a great extent, in the interests of the intellectuals who wished to see
the prebends of their own country reserved for themselves and not occu-
pied by strangers via Rome. After all, the name natio as a legal concept
for an organized community is found first at the universities and at the
reform councils of the church. At that time, however, the linkage to the
national language per se was lacking; this linkage, for the reasons stated,
is specifically modern.
If one believes that it is at all expedient to distinguish national senti-
ment as something homogeneous and specifically set apart, one can do
so only by referring to a tendency toward an autonomous state. And one
must be clearly aware of the fact that «entiments of solidarity, very
heterogeneous in both their nature and their origin, are comprised within
national sentiments.
V II. Class, otatus, x arty^
i: Economically Determined Power and the Social Order
Law exists when there is a probabiHty that an order will be upheld by a
specific staff of men who will use physical or psychical compulsion with
the intention of obtaining conformity with the order, or of inflicting
sanctions for infringement of it.^ The structure of every legal order di-
rprflT,rinfliipnrf^ '^hp divt rilvnlnn nf ppw^'-j economic or Otherwise, within
its respective community. This is true of all legal orders and not only
that of the state. In general, we understand by 'power* the chance of a
man or of a number ofjueiL-to realize their own will in a communal
action even_agaigsL-tl*e-^esisI;ance_of others who are participating in the
action.
'Economically conditioned' power is not, of course, identical with
'power' as such. On the contrary, the emergence of economic power may
be the consequence of power existing on other grounds. Man does not
strive for power only in order to enrich himself economically. Power,
including economic power, may be valued 'for its own sake.' Very fre-
quently the striving for power is also conditioned by the social 'honor'
it entails. Not all power, however, entails social honor : The typical Amer-
ican Boss, as well as the typical big speculator, deliberately relinquishes
social honor. Quite generally, 'mere economic' power, and especially
'naked' money power, is by no means a recognized basis of social
honor. Nor is power the only basis of social honor. Indeed, social honor,
or prestige, may even be the basis of political or economic power, and
very frequently has been. Power, as well as honor, may be guaranteed by
the legal order, but, at least normally, it is not their primary source. The
*Wirtschnjt and Gesellschaft, part iii, chap. 4, pp. 631-40. The first sentence in para-
graph one and the several definitions in this chapter which are in brackets do not appear
in the original text. They have been taken from other contexts of Wirtschajt und Gesell-
schaft.
180
CLASS, STATUS, PARTY l8l
fegal order is rather an additional factor jhatj£jaliaiices^the_chance to hold
pnwer_or honor; but it cannot always secure thernJ__
The way in whicK social honor is distributed in a community between
typical groij0~particij3ating intHis'llTsrribution^'weTnay^afrthe^^S&ci^
order.' The social order and the economic order are, of course, similarly
related to the 'legal order.' However, the social and the economic order
I are not identical. The economic order is for us fnerely the way In which
econorflic^goods and services are distributed and used. The social order is
of course conditioned by the economic order to a high degree, and in its
' turn reacts upon it.
' Now: 'classes,' 'status ffloups,' and 'parties' are phenomenaof the dis-
[ tribution of power within a community.
2; Determination of Class-Situation by Market-Situation
In our terminology, 'classes' are not communities; they merely repre-
sent possible, and frequent, bases for communal action. We may speak
of a 'classlwhen (i) o-iiumber of people JiavLejn common_a^specific causal
component of their life chances, in so far as (2) this component_is_r£pre-
sented exclusively by economic interests in the possession of^opds _and
opportunities for income, andr^3} is represented ulider the conditions of
the_£ommodity or labor markets. [These points refer to 'class situation,'
which we~may~express more briefly as the^tygkaj^ chance fQLJ-.-JlJ'PP^y
oi_gpodSj external living conditions. and_gersonal lif^ fyppripHrpy, m- so
far as this chance is determined by the amount and kind oJ^oweTjOr
lack of sucb^tQjdispose of goods or skills for the jake of jncome in a given
€concuiiic_iu:der-. The term 'class' refers to any group of people that is^
found in the same class situation.]
It is the most elemental economic fact that the way in which the dis-
position over material property is distributed among a plurality of people,
meeting competitively in the market for the purpose of exchange, in itself
creates specific life chances. According to the law of marginal utility this
mode o£ distribution excludes the non-a\vners from competing for highly
valued goods; it favors the owners and, in fact, gives to them a monopoly
to acquire such goods. Other things being equal, this mode of distribu-
tion monopolizes the opportunities for profitable deals for all those who,
provided with goods, do not necessarily have to exchange them. It in-
creases, at least generally, their power in price wars with those who, being
propertyless, have nothing to offer but their services in native form or
VA^
1 82
POWER
^
goods in a form constituted through their own labor, and who above all
are compelled to get rid of these products in order barely to subsist.
This mode of distribution gives to the_ propertied a monopoly on ^he
*^6sslbility'31ra^fonng propert}^Jrom the sphere of use as a 'fortune,'
-roTKejpKere^f 'capital goods'; that is, it gives them the entrepreneurial
iunction and all chances to share direcdy or indirectlyjn_returns on capi-
talTAirtliis holds true within the area in which pure market condition?
fcfprevail.- 'Property' and 'lack of property' are, therefore, the basic cate-
~ m gories of all class situations! iFdoes not matter whether these two cate-
gories become effective in price wars or in competitive struggles.
Within these categories, hov(^ever^__dass situations are further difiFer-
enriated:^on_the_one handT according to the kind of property that is us-
aEle^for returns; and, on the other hand, according to the kind of services
tHaTcan beoffered in the market. Ownership of domestic buildings; pro-
ductiVe- ciLabhAhinuiLl>; "wafehouses; stores; agriculturally usable land,
large and small holdings — quantitative differences with possibly qualita-
tive consequences — ; ownership of mines; cattle; men (slaves); disposi-
tion over mobile instruments of production, or capital goods of all sorts,
especially money or objects that can be exchanged for money easily and
at any time; disposition over products of one's own labor or of others'
labor differing according to their various distances from consumability;
disposition over transferable monopolies of any kind — all these distinc-
tions differentiate the class situations of the propertied just as does^he
'meaning^ which [hey can and do give to the~ utihzation ^f~property,
especiall}r~to property which has moliey equivalence. Accordingly, the
^propertied, for instance, may belong to the class of rentiers or to the
class of entrepreneurs.
Those who have no property but who of^er services are_differentiat^d^_
just as mucti accordmg to their kinds of services as according to the way
in which they make use of these services, in a continuous or discontinu-
ous relation to a recipient. But always this is the generic connotation of
the concept of class: that the kind of chance in the marf^et is the decisive
moment which presents a common condition for the individual's fate.
'Class situation' is. m_this sense, ultimately 'market situation.' The effect
of naked possession per j-e, which among cattle~br'eeders gives the non-
owmrig slave^oFlefrihto the power of the cattle owner, is only a fore-
runner of real 'class' formation. However, in the cattle loan and in the
naked severity of the law of debts in such communities, for the first time
mere^ossession' as such emerges as decisive for the fate of the indi-
CLASS, STATUS, PARTY 1 83
vidual. This is very much in contrast to the agricultural communities
based on labor. The creditor-debtor relation becomes the basis of 'class
situations' only in those cities where a 'credit market,' however primi-
tive, with rates of interest increasing according to the extent of dearth
and a factual monopolization of credits, is developed by a plutocracy.
Therewith 'class struggles' begin.
Those men whose fate is not determined by the chance of using goods
or services for themselves on the market, e.g. slaves, are not, however, a
'class' in the technical sense of the term. They are, rather, a 'status group.'
\/ 3: Communal Action Flowing from Class Interest
According to our terminology, the factor that creates 'class' is unam-
biguously economic interest, and indeed, only those interests involved
irrtTie~existence of the 'market.' Nevertheless, the concept of 'class-interest'
is an ambiguous one: even as an empirical concept it is ambiguous as
soon as one urid^e'rstands by it something other than the factual direction
of interests following with a certain probability from the class situation
for a certain 'average' of those people subjected to the class situation. The
class situation and other circumstances remaining the same, the direction
in which the individual worker, for instance, is likely to pursue his in-
terests may vary widely, according to whether he is constitutionally quali-
fied for the task at hand to a high, to an average, or to a low degree.
In the same way, the direction of interests may vary according to
whether or not a communal action of a larger or smaller portion of those
. comm©nly-a£fe£ted by the 'class sittrationr-or-even-^n association among
them, e.g. a 'trade union,' has grown out of the class situation from which
the individual may or may not expect promising results. [Communal
action jefers to that action which is oriented to the feeling of the actors
that they belong together. Societal action, on the other hand, is oriented
to a rationaliy-Uiotivated adjustment of interests.;] The rise of societal or
even of communal action fromj^commonrlasssitnatinn is by no means
a universal phenomenon.
le class situation may be restricted in its effects to the generation of
essentially similar reactions, that is to say, within our terminology, of 'mass
actions.' However, it may not have even this result. Furthermore, often
merely an amorphous communal action emerges. For example, the 'mur-
muring' of the workers known in ancient oriental ethics : the moral disap-
proval of the work-master's conduct, which in its practical significance was
184 POWER
probably equivalent to an increasingly typical phenomenon of precisely the
latest industrial development, namely, the 'slow down' (the deliberate lim-
iting of work effort) of laborers by virtue of tacit agreement. The degreejn
which 'communaLaction^^and possibly 'societal action,' emei-ggT^^om^the
'mass actions' of the members of a class is linked to general cultural con-
dTttons, especialty to those"of 'aiTtntellectual sort. It Ts~also~niiked"To"t1ie
'extent of the xcnitrags-"ThM"^£ve^~atreaH>r^olved, and is especially
linked tolhe transparency ofjthe connections between the causes an^jKe
consequences'oFme 'class situation.'. For however different life chances
may be, this fact in itself, according to all experience^ by no jneans^ives
birthjQ-£lass-a€tion' (communal^actioirbjrthe members of a class). The
fact of being conditioned and the results of the class situation must be
distinctly recognizable. For only then the contrast of life chances can be
felt not as an absolutely given fact to be accepted, but as a resultant from
either (i) the given distribution of property, or (2) the structure of
the concrete economic order. It is only then that people may react against
the class structure not only through acts of an intermittent and irrational
protest, but in the form of rational association. There have been 'class
situations' of the first category (i), of a specifically naked and transparent
sort, in the urban centers of Antiquity and during the Middle Ages; espe-
cially then, when great fortunes were accumulated by factually monopo-
lized trading in industrial products of these localities or in foodstuffs.
Furthermore, under certain circumstances, in the rural economy of the
most diverse periods, when agriculture was increasingly exploited in a
profit-making manner. The most important historical example of the
second category (2) is the class situation of the modern 'proletariat.'
4: Types of 'Class Struggle'
Thus every class may be the carrier of any one of the possibly in-
numerable forms of 'class action,' but this is not necessarily so. In any
case, a class does not in itself constitute a community. To treat 'class'
conceptually as having" the same value as 'community' leads to distor-
tion. That men in the same class situation regularly react in mass actions
to such tangible situations as economic ones in the direction of those
interests that are most adequate to their average number is an important
and after all simple fact for the understanding of historical events. Above
all, this fact must not lead to that kind of pseudo-scientific operation with
the concepts of 'class' and 'class interests' so frequently found these days.
CLASS, STATUS, PARTY 1 85
and which has found its most classic expression in the statement of a tal-
ented author, that the individual may be in error concerning his interests
but that the 'class' is 'infallible' about its interests. Yet, if classesassuch
are not communities, nevertheless class situations emerge only on the
basis~of'communaliza^on. The communal action that brings forth class
situations, how^ever, is noj_ basically action between membefs~6f~the
identical class; it is an action between members of different classes. Com-
munal actions that directly determine the class situation of the worker
and-tbe entrepreneur are: the labor market, the commodities rnarket,
and the capitalistic enterprise. But, in its turn, the existence of a capital-
istic enterprise presupposes that a very specific communal action exists
and that it is specifically structured to protect the possession of goods
per se, and especially the power of individuals to dispose, in principle
freely, over the means of production. The existence of a capitalistic enter-
prise is preconditioned by a specific kind of 'legal order.' Each kind of j
class situation, and above all when it rests upon the power of property
per se, will become most clearly efficacious when all other determinants
of reciprocal relations are, as far as possible, eliminated in their signifi-
cance. It is in this way that the utilization of the power of property in the
market obtains its most sovereign importance.
Now 'status groups' hinder the strict carrying through of the sheer
market principleT In the present context they are of interest to us only
from this one point of view. Before we briefly consider them, note that
not much of a general nature can be said about the more specific kinds
of antagonism between 'classes' (in our meaning of the term). The great
shift, which has been going on continuously in the past, and up to our
times, may be summarized, although at the cost of some precision: the
struggle in which class situations are effective has progressively shifted
from consumption credit toward, first, competitive struggles in the com-
modity market and, then, toward price wars on the labor market.] The
'class struggles' of antiquity — to the extent that they were genuine class
struggles and not struggles between status groups — were initially carried
on by indebted peasants, and perhaps also by artisans threatened by debt
bondage and struggling against urban creditors. For debt bondage is the j
normal result of the differentiation of wealth in commercial cities, espe-
cially in seaport cities. A similar situation has existed among cattle
breeders. Debt relationships as such produced class action up to the time
of Cataline. Along with this, and with an increase in provision of grain
for the city by transporting it from the outside, the struggle over the
l86 POWER
means of sustenance emerged. It centered in the first place around the
provision of bread and the determination of the price of bread. It lasted
throughout antiquity and the entire Middle Ages. The propertyless as
such flocked together against those who actually and supposedly were
interested in the dearth of bread. This fight spread until it involved all
those commodities essential to the way of life and to handicraft produc-
tion. There were only incipient discussions of wage disputes in antiquity
and in the Middle Ages. But they have been slowly increasing up into
modern times. In the earlier periods they were completely secondary to
slave rebellions as well as to fights in the commodity market.
The propertyless of antiquity and of the Middle Ages protested against
monopolies, pre-emption, forestalling, and the withholding of goods from
the market in order to raise prices. Today the central issue is the deter-
mination of the price of labor.
This transition is represented by the fight for access to the market
and for the determination of the price of products. Such fights went on
between merchants and workers in the putting-out system of domestic
handicraft during the transition to modern times. Since it is quite a gen-
eral phenomenon we must mention here that the class antagonisms that
are conditioned through the market situation are usually most bitter
between those who actually and directly participate as opponents in price
wars. It is not the rentier, the share-holder, and the banker who suffer
the ill will of the worker, but almost exclusively the manufacturer and
the business executives who are the direct opponents of workers in price
wars. This is so in spite of the fact that it is precisely the cash boxes of
the rentier, the share-holder, and the banker into which the more or less
'unearned' gains flow, rather than into the pockets of the manufacturers
or of the business executives. This simple state of affairs has very fre-
quently been decisive for the role the class situation has played in the
formation of political parties. For example, it has made^ possible the
varieties of patriarchal socialism and the frequent attemptJ-^formerly, at
least — of threatened status groups to form alliances with the proletariat
against the 'bourgeoisie.'
5: Status Honor
Nii' In contrast to classes, status groups are normally communities. They
are, however, often "of an amorphous kind. In contrast to the purely
economically determined 'class situation' we wish to designate as 'status
I
CLASS, STATUS, PARTY 187
situation' everYjypical component ,Q£,th.£, life fate of men jhat Js deter-
mined by a specific, positive^oiuiegative, social estimation of honor. This
honor rnay^be connected with any quaHty shared by a pluraHty, and, of
course, it can be knit to a class situation: class distinctions are linked in
the most varied ways with status distinctions. Property as such is not al-
ways recognized as a status qualification, but in the long run it is, and
with extraordinary regularity. In the subsistence economy of the organ-
ized neighborhood, very often the richest man is simply the chieftain.
However, this often means only an honorific preference. For example,
in the so-called pure modern 'democracy,' that is, one devoid of any ex-
pressly ordered status privileges for individuals, it may be that only the
families coming under approximately the same tax class dance with one
another. This example is reported of certain smaller Swiss cities. But
status honor need not necessarily be linked with a 'class situation.' On the
contrary, it normaITv~ stands, in sharp nppoa'tinn to the pretensions^
sheer property.
Both propertied and propertyless people can belong to the same
status group, and frequently they do with very tangible consequences.
This 'equality' of social esteem may, however, in the long run become
quite precarious. The 'equality' of status among the American 'gentle-
men,' for instance, is expressed by the fact that outside the subordination
determined by the different functions of 'business,' it would be considered
strictly repugnant — wherever the old tradition still prevails — if even the
richest 'chief,' while playing billiards or cards in his club in the evening,
would not treat his 'clerk' as in every sense fully his equal in birthright.
It would be repugnant if the American 'chief would bestow upon his
'clerk' the condescending 'benevolence' marking a distinction of 'posi-
tion,' which the Gerrpan chief can never dissever from his attitude. This
is one of the most important reasons why in America the German
'clubby-ness' has never been able to attain the attraction that the Ameri-
can clubs have.
6: Guarantees of Status Stratification
Ig^content, status honor is normally expressed by the fact_that_above_
all else a specific style of life can be expected tfom all tKose who wish to
belong to the circlerLirilced with this expectatioiT~are "restrictions on
'social!, intercourse (that is, intercourse which is not subservient to eco-
nomic or any other of business's 'functional' purposes). These restric-
POWER
tions may confine normal marriages to within the status circle and may
lead to complete endogamous closure. As soon as there is not a mere
individual and socially irrelevant imitation of another style of hfe, but an
agreed-upon communal action of this closing character, the 'status' de-
Velopmgit2_.under way.
In its characteristic form, stratification by 'status groups' on the basis
of conventional styles of life evolves at the present time in the United
States out of the traditional democracy. For example, only the resident
of a certain street ('the street') is considered as belonging to 'society,'
is qualified for social intercourse, and is visited and invited. Above all,
this differentiation evolves in such a way as to make for strict submis-
sion to the fashion that is dominant at a given time in society. This sub-
mission to fashion also exists among men in America to a degree un-
known in Germany. Such submission is considered to be an indication
/V of the fact that a given man pretends to qualify as a gentleman. This sub-
mission decides, at least prima facie, that he will be treated as such. And
this recognition becomes just as important for his employment chances
in 'swank' establishments, and above all, for social intercourse and mar-
riage with 'esteemed' families, as the qualification for dueling among
Germans in the Kaiser's day. As for the rest : certain families resident for
a long time, and, of course, correspondingly wealthy, e.g. 'F. F. V., i.e.
First Families of Virginia,' or the actual or alleged descendants of the
'Indian Princess' Pocahontas, of the Pilgrim fathers, or of the Knicker-
bockers, the members of almost inaccessible sects and all sorts of circles
setting themselves apart by means of any other characteristics and
badges ... all these elements usurp 'status' honor. yThe development of
A A\ status is essentially a question of stratification resting upon usurpation.
Such usurpation is the normal origin of almost all status honor. But the
road from this purely conventional situation to legal privilege, positive
, or negative, is easily traveled as soon as a certain stratification of the
social order has in fact been 'lived in' and has achieved stability by virtue
of a stable distribution of economic pov»'er.
7: 'Ethnic' Segregation and 'Caste'
I Where the consequences have been realized to their full extent, the
I status group evolves into a closed 'caste.' Status distinctions are then
I guaranteed not merely by conventions and laws, but also by rituals. This
occurs in such a way that every physical contact with a member of any
CLASS, STATUS, PARTY 1 89
caste that is considered to be 'lower' by the members of a 'higher' caste is
considered as making for a rituahstic impurity and to be a stigma which
must be expiated by a rehgious act. Individual castes develop quite dis-
tinct cults and gods.
V In general, however, the status structure reaches such extreme conse-
quences only where there are underlying differences which are held to
be 'ethnic' The 'caste' is, indeed, the normal form in which ethnic com-
munities usually live side by side in a 'societalized' manner. These ethnic
communities believe in blood relationship and exclude exogamous mar-
riage and social intercourse. Such a caste situation is part of the phe-
nomenon of 'pariah' peoples and is found all over the world. These people
form communities, acquire specific occupational traditions of handicrafts
or of other arts, and cultivate a belief in their ethnic community. They
live in a 'diaspora' strictly segregated from all personal intercourse, ex-
cept that of an unavoidable sort, and their situation is legally precarious.
Yet, by virtue of their economic indispensability, they are tolerated, in-
deed, frequently privileged, and they live in interspersed political com-
munities. The Jews are the most impressive historical example.
A 'status' segregation grown into a 'caste' diiJers in its structure from
a mere 'ethnic' segregation: the caste structure transforms the horizontal
and unconnected coexistences of ethnically segregated groups into a verti-
cal social system of super- and subordination. Correctly formulated: a
comprehensive societalization integrates the ethnically divided communi-
ties into specific political and communal action. In their consequences
they differ precisely in this way./tihmc coexistences condition a mutual
repulsion and disdain but allow each ethnic community to consider its
own honor as the highest one; the caste structure brings about a social
subordination and an acknowledgment of 'more honor' in favor of the
privileged caste and status groups. This is due to the fact that in the
caste structure ethnic distinctions as such have become 'functional' dis-
tinctions within the political societalization (warriors, priests, artisans
that are politically important for war and for building, and so on). But
even pariah people who are most despised are usually apt to continue
cultivating in some manner that which is equally peculiar to ethnic and
to status communities: the belief in their own specific 'honor.' This is
the case with the Jews.
i, Only with the negatively privileged status groups does the 'sense of
dignity' take a specific deviation. A sense of dignity is the precipitation
in individuals of social honor and of conventional demands which a
1 00 POWER
positively privileged status group raises for the deportment of its mem-
bers. Xhe sense of dignity thft rhnrprfprJT-pg pn<;i>ivp]y privileged status
groups is naturally related to their 'being' which does not transcend itself,
that is, it is to their 'beauty and excellence' (xaAo->cdYa'&ia),jrheirJ^ing-
dornis 'of this world.' They livefor the present and hj exploiting their
great past. The sense of dignity of the negatively privileged strata natu-
rally-fcfcrs to afog^ejpag-heyondiitfae" present, whether it is of this life
or oT^another] In other words, it must be nurtured by the belief in a
^pTrvidential 'mission' and by a belief in a specific honor before God.
The 'chosen people's' dignity is nurtured by a belief either that in the
beyond 'the last will be the first,' or that in this life a Messiah will appear
to bring forth into the light of the world which has cast them out the
hidden honor of the pariah people. This simple state of affairs, and not
the 'resentment' which is so strongly emphasized in Nietzsche's much
admired construction in the Genealogy cf Morals, is the source of the
religiosity cultivated by pariah status groups. In passing, we may note
that resentment may be accurately applied only to a limited extent; for
one of Nietzsche's main examples, Buddhism, it is not at all applicable.
/Incidentally, the development of status groups from ethnic segrega-
tions is by no means the normal phenomenon. On the contrary, since
objective 'racial differences' are by no means basic to every subjective
sentiment of an ethnic community, the ultimately racial foundation of
status structure is rightly and absolutely a question of the concrete indi-
vidual case. Very frequently a status group is instrumental in thepro-
duction of a thoroughbred anthfopolc^atType. tl!ertainly a status group
is to aKigndegree effective in producing extreme types, for they select
personally qualified individuals (e.g. the Knighthood selects those who
are fit for warfare, physically and psychically). But selection is far from
being the only, or the predominant, way in which status groups are
formed: Political membership or class situation has at all times been at
J least as frequendy decisive. And today the class situation is by far
the predominant factor, for of course the possibility of a style of hfe
expected for members of a status group is usually conditione'd eco-
nomically.
8: Status Privileges
For all practical purposes, stratification by status goes hand in hand
i^ witb-ajnonopolization of idealand~mareml--goods or opportunities; in a
manner we have come to know as typical. Besides the specific status
CLASS, STATUS, PARTY I9I
honor, which always rests upon distance and exclusiveness, we find all \/**
sorts of material monopolies. Such honorific preferences may consist
of the privilege of wearing special costumes, of eating special dishes
taboo to others, of carrying arms — which is most obvious in its conse-
quences— the right to pursue certain non-professional dilettante artistic
practices, e.g. to play certain musical instruments. Of course, material
monopolies provide the most effective motives for the exclusiveness of a
status group; although, in themselves, they are rarely sufficient, almost
always they come into play to some extent. Within a status circle there
is the question of intermarriage: the interest of the families in the
monopolization of potential bridegrooms is at least of equal importance
and is parallel to the interest in the monopolization of daughters. The
daughters of the circle must be provided for. With an increased inclosure
of the status group, the conventional preferential opportunities for special
employment grow into a legal monopoly of special offices for the mem-
bers. Certain goods become objects for monopolization by status groups.
In the typical fashion these include 'entailed estates' and frequently also
the possessions of serfs or bondsmen and, finally, special trades. This
monopolization occurs positively when the status group is exclusively en-
titled to own and to manage them; and negatively when, in order to
maintain its specific way of life, the status group must not own and
manage them.
i^Qi^ decisive role of a 'style of life' in status 'honor' means that status
groups are the specific bearers^jaf _aliJcpnventions.' In^wEatever way it i
may be manifest, all 'stylization' of life either originates in status groups 1
or is at least conserved by them. Even if the principles of status conven-
tions differ greatly, they reveal certain typical traits, especially among
those strata which are most privileged. Quite generally, among privileged
status groups there is a status disqualification that operates against the
performance of common physical labor. This disqualification is now
'setting in' in America against the old tradition of esteem for labor.
Very frequently every rational economic pursuit, and especially 'entre-
preneurial activity,' is looked upon as a disqualification of status. Artistic
and literary activity is also considered as degrading work as soon as it is
exploited for income, or at least when it is connected with hard physical
exertion. An example is the sculptor working like a mason in his dusty
smock as over against the painter in his salon-like 'studio' and those
forms of musical practice that are acceptable to the status group.
192 POWER
9: Economic Conditions and Effects of Status Stratification
The frequent disqualification of the gainfully employed as such is a
direct result of the principle of status stratification peculiar to the social
order, and of course, of this principle's opposition to a distribution of
power which is regulated exclusively through the market. These two
factors operate along with various individual ones, which will be touched
upon below.
We have seen above that the market and its processes 'knows no per-
sonal distinctions': 'functional' interests dominate it. It knows nothing
of 'honor.' The status order means precisely the reverse, viz.: stratifica-
tion in terms of 'honor' and of styles^_life peculiar tOL-Status groups as
such. If mere economic acquisition and naked economic power still
bearing the stigma of its extra-status origin could bestow upon anyone
who has won it the same honor as those who are interested in status by
virtue of style of life claim for themselves, the status order would be
threatened at its very root. This is the more so as, given equality of status
honor, property per se represents an addition even if it is not overtly
acknowledged to be such. Yet if such economic acquisition and power
gave the agent any honor at all, his wealth would result in his attaining
more hqnor than those who successfully claim honor by virtue of style
of life. (Therefore all groups having interests ^n the stajtus^prder react
(.with special sKarpness precisely against the pretensions of purely eco-
""Sylnnrnic arqiiisitinn- In most cases they react the more vigorously the
more they feel themselves threatened. Calderon's respectful treatment of
the peasant, for instance, as opposed to Shakespeare's simultaneous and
ostensible disdain of the canaille illustrates the different way in which
a firmly structured status order reacts as compared with a status order
that has become economically precarious. This is an example of a state
of affairs that recurs everywhere. Precisely because of the rigorous reac-
tions against the claims of property per se, the 'parvenu' is never ac-
cepted, personally and without reservation, by the privileged status
groups, no matter how completely his style of life has been adjusted to
theirs. They wiU^only^ accept Jiis descendants who have been ediicated.
in the conventions of theit. status group and_wEo~havejieYer_besmirched
itsjignor by their own economic labor.
I As to the general e^ect^ of the status order, only one consequence can
/ be stated, but it is a very important one: the hindrance of the free de-
CLASS, STATUS, PARTY 1 93
velopment of the market occurs^ first for those goods which status groups
directly withhel3"troiTrfree exchange by monopohzation. This monopoH-
zation may be effected eithTfiegaMy- or convcntionallyT^W example, in
many Hellenic cities during the epoch of status groups, and also originally
in Rome, the inherited estate (as is shown by the old formula for indic-
tion against spendthrifts) was monopolized just as were the estates of
knights, peasants, priests, and especially the clientele of the craft and
merchant guilds. The market is restricted, and the power of naked prop-
erty per se, which gives its stamp to 'class formation,' is pushed into the
background. The results of this process can be most varied. Of course,
they do not necessarily weaken the contrasts in the economic situation.
Frequently they strengthen these contrasts, and in any case, where strati-
fication by status permeates a community as strongly as was the case
in all political communities of antiquity and of the Middle Ages, one can
never speak of a genuinely free market competition as we understand
it today. There are wider effects than this direct exclusion of special
goods from the market. From the contrariety between the status order
and the purely economic order mentioned above, it follows that in
most instances the notion of honor peculiar to status absolutely
abhors that which is essential to the market: higgling. Honor abhors
higgling among peers and occasionally it taboos higgling for the mem-
bers of a status group in general. Therefore, everywhere some status
groups, and usually the most influential, consider almost any kind of
overt participation in economic acquisition as absolutely stigmatizing.
With some over-simplification, one might thus say that 'classes' are
stratified according to their relations to the production and acquisition
of goods; whereas 'status groups' are stratified accordmg to the principles
of^_their consumption of goods as represented by special 'styles of life.'
An 'occupational group' is also a status group. For normally, it"success-
fully claims social honor only by virtue of the special style of life which
may be determined by it. The differences between classes and status
groups frequently overlap. It is precisely those status communities most
strictly segregated in terms of honor (viz. the Indian castes) who today
show, although within very rigid limits, a relatively high degree of in-
difference to pecuniary income. However, the Brahmins seek such in-
come in many different ways.
As to the general economic conditions making for the predominance
of stratification by 'status,' only very little can be said. When the bases of
the acquisition and distribution of goods are relatively stable, stratifica-
194 POWER
tion by status is favored. Every technological repercussion and economic
transformation threatens stratification by status and pushes the class situ-
ation into the foreground. Epochs and countries in which the naked class
J \ ; , situation is of predominant significance are regularly the periods of tech-
nical and economic transformations. And every slowing down of the
shifting of economic stratifications leads, in due course, to the growth of
status structures and makes for a resuscitation of the important role of
social honor.
id: Parties
Whereas the genuine place of 'classes' is within the economic order, the
place of 'status groups' is within the social order, that is, within the
sphere of the distribution of 'honor.' From within these spheres, classes
and status groups influence one another and they influence the legal order
and are in turn influenced by it. But ('parties' live in a house of 'power,'
Their action is oriented toward the acquIsitIon25f~^cral 'power,' that
is to say, toward influencing a communal action no matter what its con-
tent-Diay^be. In principle, parties may exist in a sociaF^lub' as well as
in a 'state.' As over against the actions of classes and status groups, for
which this is not necessarily the case, the communal actions of 'parties'
always mean a societalization. For party actions are, always' directed to-
ward a goal which is striven for in planned manner. This goal may be a
'cause' (the party may aim at reahzing a program for ideal or material
purposes), or the goal may be 'personal' (sinecures, power, and from
these, honor for the leader and the followers of the party). Usually
the party action aims at all these simultaneously. Parties are, therefore,
only^possible within communities^jthaL_5ie societal i zed, that is, whicli
have some rational order and a staff of persons available_who are ready
tocnlorce it. For parties ajm precisely at influencing this staf^j, and if pos-
siblcj to^recruit it from party followers.
In any individuar~case7~partTesmay represent interests determined
through 'class situation' or 'status situation,' and they may recruit their
following respectively from one or the other. But they need be neither
purely 'class' nor purely 'status' parties. In most cases they are partly
class parties and partly status parties, but sometimes they are neither.
They may represent ephemeral or enduring structures. Their means of
attaining power may be quite varied, ranging from naked violence of
^ny sort to canvassmg tor^yotes with coarse or subtTe~means: money,
social influence, the force of speech, suggestion, clumsy hoax, and so on to
CLASS, STATUS, PARTY I95
the rougher or more artful tactics of obstruction in parHamentary
bodies.
The sociological structure of parties differs in a basic way according to
the kind of communal actioir~which they struggle to influenceTPaiTi'es
also differ according to whether or not the community is stratified by
status or by classes. Above all else, they (vary according to the structure U/%-.
of domination within the community. For their leaders normally deal
with the conquest of a community. They are, in the general concept
which is maintained here, not only products of specially modern forms
of domination. We shall also designate as parties the ancient and me-
dieval 'parties,' despite the fact that their structure differs basically from
the structure of modern parties. By virtue of these structural differences
of domination it is impossible to say anything about the structure of
parties without discussing the structural forms of social domination
per se. Parties, which are always structures struggling for domination,
are very frequently organized in a very strict 'authoritarian' fashion. . .
/Concerning 'classes,' 'status groups,' and 'parties,' it must be said in
general that they necessarily presuppose a comprehensive societalization,
and especially a political framework of communal action, within which
they operate^ This does not mean that parties would be confined by the
frontiers of any individual political community. On the contrary, at all
times it has been the order of the day that the societalization (even when
it aims at the use of military force in common) reaches beyond the
frontiers of politics. This has been the case in the solidarity of interests
among the Oligarchs and among the democrats in Hellas, among the
Guelfs and among Ghibellines in the Middle Ages, and within the Calvin-
ist party during the period of religious struggles. It has been the case up
to the solidarity of the landlords (international congress of agrarian land-
lords), and has continued among princes (holy alliance, Karlsbad de-
crees), socialist workers, conservatives (tht longing of Prussian conserva-
tives for Russian intervention in 1850), But their aim is not necessarily
the establishment of new international political, i.e. territorial, dominion.
In the main they aim to influence the existing dominion.*
* The posthumously published text breaks off here. We omit an incomplete sketch of
types of 'warrior estates.'
V iii. Jjureaucracy
I : Characteristics of Bureaucracy
Modern officialdom functions in the following specific niannerj
I. There isthe principle of fixed and official jurisdictional areas^-
^iihiciu^e generally ordered by rules, that is, bylaws or admimsfrative
regulations.
1. The regular activities required for the purposes of the bureau-
cratically governed structure are distributed in a fixed way as official
duties.
2. The authority to give the commands required for the discharge
of these duties is distributed in a stable way and is strictly delimited by
rules concerning the coercive means, physical, sacerdotal, or otherwise,
which may be placed at the disposal of officials.
3. Methodical provision is made for the regular and continuous fulfil-
ment of these duties and for the execution of the corresponding rights;
only persons who have the generally regulated qualifications to serve
are employed.
In public and lawful governmentthese three elern£n.ts constiLiite
^bureaucfaiic authority.' In private economicJomi nation, they constitute
bureaucratic njanagemeiTtr"Bureaucracy. thus understood, is fully de-
veloped in political and ecclesiastical communities only in the modern
state, and, in the private economy, only in the most advanced institutions
of capitalism.\Permanent and public office authority, with fixed jurisdic-
tion, is not the historical rule but rather the exception.. This is so even
in large political structures such as those of the ancient Orient, the Ger-
manic and Mongolian empires of conquest, or of many feudal structures
of state. In all these cases, the ruler executes the most important measures
through personal trustees, table-companions, or court-servants. Their
Wirtschaft itnd Gesellschajt, part in, chap. 6, pp. 650-78.
196
BUREAUCRACY I97
commissions and authority are not precisely delimited and are tempo-
rarily called into being for each case.
II. The principles of office ^hierarchy \and of levels of graded authority
mean a firrnly ordered system of super- and subordination in which
there is a supervision of the lower offices by the higher ones. Such a sys-*
tern offers the governed the possibility of appealing the decisiori~6f a
lower office to its higher authority, in a definitely regulated manner.
With the full development of the bureaucratic type, the office hierarchy
is monocratically organized. The princj^leo/hierarchical pffice authority
is found in all bureaucratic structures : in state and ecclesiasticaTstructures •
as well as in large party organizations and private enterprises. It does
not matter for the character of bureaucracy whether its authority is
called 'private' or 'public'
When the principle of jurisdictional 'competency' is fully carried
through, hierarchical subordination — at least in public office — does not
mean that the 'higher' authority is simply authorized to take over the
business of the 'lower.' Indeed, the opposite is the rule. Qnce_established
and having fulfilled its task, an office tends to continue in existence and
be heId"5^IinQther incumbent. ^~
III. The management of the modern office is based upon written
documents X^the files')^ which are ^preserved in their original or draught
form. There is, therefore, a staff of sub^ern officials and scribes of all
sorts. The body of officials actively engaged in a 'public' office, along
with the respective apparatus of material implements and the files,
make up a 'bureau.' In private enterprise, 'the bureau' is often called 'the
ofEge.' " ■
In principle, the modern organization of the civil service separates the
bureau from the private domicile of the official, and, in general, bureau-
cracy segregates official activity as something distinct from the sphere
oF^private life. Public momes and equipment are divorced from the
private property of the official. This condition is everywhere the product
of a long development. Nowadays, it is found in public as well as in
private enterprises; in the latter, the principle extends even to the leading
entrepreneur. In prinsiple, the executive office is separated from the
household, business from private correspondence, and business assets
from private fortunes. The more consistently the modern type of busi-
ness management has been carried through the more are these separa-
tions the case. The beginnings of this process are to be found as early
as the Middle Ages.
198 POWER
It is the peculiarity of tlie modern entrepreneur that he conducts him-
self as the 'first official' of his enterprise, in the very same way in which
the ruler of a specifically modern bureaucratic state spoke of himself as
'the first servant' of the state.^ The idea that the bureau activities of the
state are intrinsically different in character from the management of
private economic offices is a continental European notion and, by way of
contrast, is totally foreign to the American way.
IV. Office management, at least all specialized office management —
and such management is distinctly modern — usuiHIyTpresupposes thor-
ough and expert training. ^This increasingly holds for the modern execu-
tive and employee of private enterprises, in the same manner as it holds
for the state official.
V_.W1^^" ^^^ nfFire is fully__j.eveloped, official^actiyity demands the
full working capacity of the official, irrespective of the fact tKat his oblig-
atory time inrtRe_bureauTjnay be firmly deUmited. InTlKe normal case,
this is only the product of a long development, in the public as well as
in the private office. Formerly, in all cases, the normal state of affairs
was reversed: official business was discharged as a secondary activity.
VI. The management of the office follows general rules, which are
more" or less stable, rnore or less exhaustive, and wKictrTaTr~bc-icarned.
Knowledge of these rules represents a special technical learning which
the officials possess. It involves jurisprudence, or administrative or busi-
ness management.
' The reduetioHr of ^?aodern-office' management to rules is deeply ein- _
.bedded .in its very nature. The theory of modern public administration,
for instance, assumes that the authority to order certain matters by de-
cree— which has been legally granted to public authorities — does not en-
title the bureau tojxgulate- the matter by commands given for each case,
buL-XMily.-to regulate. the matter abstractly. This stands in extreme con-
trast to the regulation of all relationships through individual privileges
and bestowals of favor, which is absolutely dominant in patrimonialism,
at least in so far as such relationships are not fixed by sacred tradition.
2: The Position of the Official
All thisresults in the following for the internal, and external position
of tjie.,official:
I. Office holding is a 'vocation.' This is shown, first, in the requirement
of a firmly prescribed course of training, which demands the entire
BUREAUCRACY I99
capacity for work for a long period of time, and in the generally pre-
scribed and special examinations which are prerequisites of employment. ^ TE^"^
Furthermore, the position of the ogicial is in the nature of a duty. This |- e^- '^^
determines the internal structure of his relations, in the following man-
ner: Legally and actually, office holding is not considered a source to be
exploited for rents or emoluments, as was normally the case during the
Middle Ages and frequently up to the threshold of recent times. Nor is
office holding considered a usual exchange of services for equivalents, -^c;^
as is the case with free labor contracts. (Entrance into an office, includm^\ ^ Vr
one in the^riyate economy, is considered an acceptance of a specific obli- L- V^
gation of faithful management in return for a secure existenceJit is de- J "v-V^''
cisive Tor the specific nature of modern loyalty to an office that, in the : ,j-^'
pure type, it does not establish a relationship to a person, like the vassal's
or disciple's faith in feudal or in patrimonial relations of authority /Mod-_
ern loyaltyjs devoted t^qjmpersonal_andfun^^^ Behind the,. -^
functional purposes, of course,, 'ideas of culture-values' usually stan J. }
These are ersatz for the earthly or supra-mundane personal master:
ideas such as 'state,' 'church,' 'community,' 'party,' or 'enterprise' are
thought of as being realized in a community; they provide an ideological
halo for the master.
The political official — at least in the fully developed modern state — is
not considered the personal servant of a ruler. Today, the bishop, the
priest, and the preacher are in fact no longer, as in early Christian times,
holders of purely personal charisma. The supra-mundane and sacred
values which they offer are given to everybody who seems to be worthy
of them and who asks for them. In former times, such leaders acted
upon the personal command of their master; in principle, they were re-
sponsible only to him. Nowadays, in spite of the partial survival of the
old theory, such religious leaders are officials in the service of a func-
tional purpose, which in the [present-day 'church' has become routinized
and, in turn, ideologically hallowed..
II. The personal position of the official is patterned in the following^
way^
I. Whether he is in a private office or a public bureau, the modern
official always strives and usually enjoys a distinct social esteem as com- .-''
pared with the governed. His social position is guaranteed by the pre-
scriptive rules_^of rank order and, for the political official, by special
deHmUions of the criminal code against 'insults of officials' and 'con-
tempt' of state and church authorities.
v<^^
200 POWER
The actual social position of the official is normallyvhighest ^here, as
in old civilized countries, the following conditions prevail: a strong de-
mand for administration by trained experts; a strong and stable social dif-
ferentiation, w^here the official predominantly derives from socially and
economically privileged strata because of the social distribution of power;
or where the costliness of the required training and status conventions are
binding upon him. The possession of educational certiEcates — to be dis-
cussed elsewhere^ — are usually linked with qualification for office.
Naturally, such certificates or patents enhance the 'status element' in the
social position of the official. For the rest this status factor in individual
cases is explicitly and impassively acknowledged; for example, in the
prescription that the acceptance or rejection of an aspirant to an official
career depends upon the consent ('election') of the members of the offi-
cial body. This is the case in the German army with the officer corps.
Similar phenomena, which promote this guild-like closure of officialdom,
are typically found in patrimonial and, particularly, in prebendal official-
doms of the past. The desire to resurrect such phenomena in changed
forms is by no means infrequent among modern bureaucrats. For in-
stance, they have played a role among the demands of the quite prole-
tarian and expert officials (the tretyj element) during the Russian revo-
lution.
Usually the social esteem of the officials as such is especially (low where
the demand for expert administration and the dominance oj^status con-
ventions are weak. This is especially the case in the United States; it is
often the case in new settlements by virtue of their wide fields for profit-
making and the great instabiHty of their social stratification.
2. The giure^tj^e of bureaucratic official is a^^ointed by a superior au-
thority. An official elected by the governed is not a purely bureaucratic
figure. Of course, the formal existence of an election does not by itself
mean that no appointment hides behind the election — in the state, espe-
cially, appointment by party chiefs. Whether or not this is the case does
not depend upon legal statutes but upon the way in which the party
mechanism functions. Once firmly organized, the parties can turn a
formally free election into the mere acclamation of a candidate designated
by the party chief. As a rule, however, a formally free election is turned
into a fi^tj conducted^ according "to^defrriite TuTesTfor votes in favor of
one of two designated candidates.
In all circumstances, the designation of officials by means of an ei^-
tiori among the governed modifies the strictness of hierarchical sub-
BUREAUCRACY 201
ordinatiort In principle, an official who is so elected has an autonomous'
position opposite the superordinate official. I^he elected officiaF does not
derive his position 'from above' but 'from below/yor at least not from a
superior authority of the official hierarchy but from powerful party men
('bosses'), who also determine his further career. The career of the
elected official is not, or a^ least not primarily, dependent upon his
chief in the administration. (The official who is not elected but appointed
by a chief normally functions more exactlyJfrom a technical point of
view, because, all other circumstances being equal, it is more likely
that purely functional points of consideration and qualities will deter-
mine his selection and career. As laymen, the governed can become
acquainted with the extent to which a candidate is expertly qualified
for office only in terms of experience, and hence only after his service.
Moreover, in every sort of selection of officials by election, parties quite
naturally give decisive weight not to expert considerations but to the
services a follower renders to the party boss. This holds for all kinds
of procurement of officials by elections, for the designation of formally
free, elected officials by party bosses when they determine the slate of
candidates, or the free appointment by a chief who has himself been
elected. The contrast, however, is relative: substantially similar conditions
hold where legitimate monarchs and their subordinates appoint officials,
except that the influence of the followings are then less controllable.
.Where the demand for administration by trained experts is consider-
able, and the party followings have to recognize an intellectually de-
veloped, educated, and freely moving 'public opinion,' the use of un-
qualified officials falls back upon the party in power at the next elec-
tion. Naturally, this is more likely to happen when the officials are ap-
pointed by the chief. The demand for a trained administration now ex-
ists in the United States, but in the large cities, where immigrant votes \
are 'corraled,' there is, of course, no educated public opinion. Therefore,
popular elections of the administrative chief and also of his subordinate
officials usually endanger the expert qualification of the official as well '^
as the precise functioning of the bureaucratic mechanism. It also weakens
the dependence of the officials upon the hierarchy. This holds at least
for the large administrative bodies that are difficult to supervise. The
superior qualification and integrity of federal judges, appointed by the
President, as over against elected judges in the United States is well
known, although both types of officials have been selected primarily in
terms of party considerations. The great changes in American metropoli-
202 POWER
tan administrations demanded by reformers have proceeded essentially
from elected mayors working with an apparatus of officials who were
appointed by them. These reforms have thus come about in a 'Caesarist'
fashion. Viewed technically, as an organized form of authority, the
efficiency of 'Caesarism,' which often grows out of democracy, rests in
general upon the position of the 'Caesar' as a free trustee of the masses
(of the army or of the citizenry), who is unfettered by tradition. The
'Caesar' is thus the unrestrained master of a body of highly qualified
military officers and officials whom he selects freely and personally with-
out regard to tradition or to any other considerations. This 'rule of the
personal genius,' however, stands in contradiction to the formally 'demo-
cratic' principle of a universally elected officialdom.
3. Normally, the position of the official is held for life, at least in pub-
lic bureaucracies; and this is increasingly the case for all similar struc-
tures. As a factual rule, tenure for life is presupposed, even where the
giving of notice or periodic reappointment occurs. In contrast to the
worker in a private enterprise, the official normally holds tenure. Legal
or actual life-tenure, however, is not recognized as the official's right
to the possession of office, as was the case with many structures of "aiP
thority in the past. Where legal guarantees against arbitrary dismissal or
transfer are developed, they merely serve to guarantee a strictly objec-
tive discharge of specific office duties free from all personal considerations.
In Germany, this is the case for all juridical and, increasingly, for all
administrative officials.
Within the bureaucracy, therefore, the measure of 'independence,'
legally guaranteed by tenure, is not always a source of increased status
for the official whose position is thus secured. Indeed, often the reverse
holds, especially in old cultures and communities that are highly differ-
entiated. In such communities, the stricter the subordination under the
arbitrary rule of the master, the more it guarantees the maintenance of
the conventional seigneurial style of living for the official. Because of
the very absence of these legal guarantees of tenure, the conventional
esteem for the official may rise in the same way as, during the Middle
Ages, the esteem of the nobility of office ^ rose at the expense of esteem
for the freemen, and as the king's judge surpassed that of the people's
judge. In Germany, the military officer or the administrative official
can be removed from office at any time, or at least far more readily than
the 'independent judge,' who never pays with loss of his office for even
the grossest offense against the 'code of honor' or against social conven-
BUREAUCRACY 2O3
tions of the salon. For this very reason, if other things are equal, in the
eyes of the master stratum the judge is considered less qualified for
social intercourse than are officers and administrative officials, whose
greater dependence on the master is a greater guarantee of their con-
formity with status conventions. ' Of course, the average official strives
for a civil-service law, which would materially secure his old age and
provide increased guarantees against his arbitrary removal from office.
This striving, however, has its limits. A very strong development of the
'right to the office' naturally makes it more difficult to stafiE them with
regard to technical efficiency, for such a development decreases the
career-opportunities of ambitious candidates for office. This makes for
the fact that officials, on the whole, do not feel their dependency upon
those at the top. This lack of a feeling of dependency, however, rests
primarily upon the inclination to depend upon one's equals rather than
upon the socially inferior and governed strata. The present conservative
movement among the Badenia clergy, occasioned by the anxiety of a
presumably threatening separation of church and state, has been expressly
determined by the desire not to be turned 'from a master into a servant
of the parish.' ^
4. The official receives the regular pecuniary compensation of a nor-
mally fixed salary and the old age security provided by a pension. The
salary is not measured like a wage in terms of work done, but accord-
ing to 'status,' that is, according to the kind of function (the 'rank') and,
in addition, possibly, according to the length of service. The relatively
great security of the official's income, as well as the rewards of social
esteem, make the office a sought-after position, especially in countries
which no longer provide opportunities for colonial profits. In such
countries, this situation permits relatively low salaries for officials.
5. The official is set for a 'career' within the hierarchical order of the
public service. He moves from the lower, less important, and lower paid
"to the higher positions. The average official naturally desires a mechani-
cal fixing of the conditions of promotion: if not of the offices, at least of
the salary levels. He wants these conditions fixed in terms of 'seniority,'
or possibly according to grades achieved in a developed system of expert
examinations. Here and there, such examinations actually form a char-
acter indelebilis of the official and have lifelong effects on his career. To
this is joined the desire to qualify the right to office and the increasing
tendency toward status group closure and economic security. All of this
makes for a tendency to consider the offices as 'prebends' of those who are
204 POWER
qualified by educational certificates. The necessity o£ taking general per-
sonal and intellectual qualifications into consideration, irrespective of the
often subaltern character of the educational certificate, has led to a con-
dition in which the highest political offices, especially the positions of
'ministers,' are principally filled without reference to such certificates.
3: The Presuppositions and Causes of Bureaucracy
The social and economic presuppositions of the modern structure of
the office are as follows:
,, The development of the money economy, in so far as a pecuniary com-
pensation of the officials is concerned, is a presupposition of bureaucracy.
Today it not only prevails but is predominant. This fact is of very great
importance for the whole bearing of bureaucracy, yet by_ itself it is by
no means decisive for the existence of bureaucracy.
Historical examples of rather distinctly developed and quantitatively
large bureaucracies are: (a) Egypt, during the period of the new Empire
which, however, contained strong patrimonial elements; (b) the later
Roman Principate, and especially the Diocletian monarchy and the
Byzantine polity which developed out of it and yet retained strong
feudal and patrimonial elements; (c) the Roman Catholic Church, in-
creasingly so since the end of the thirteenth century; (d) China, from
the time of Shi Hwangti until the present, but with strong patrimonial
and prebendal elements; (e) in ever purer forms, the modern European
states and, increasingly, all public corporations since the time of princely
absolutism; (f) the large modern capitalist enterprise, the more so as it
becomes greater and more complicated.
To a very great extent, partly even predominantly, cases (a) to (d)
have rested upon compensation of the officials in kind. Yet they have
displayed many other traits and effects characteristic of bureaucracy.
The historical model of all later bureaucracies — the new Empire of
Egypt — is at the same time one of the most grandiose examples of an
organized subsistence economy. Yet this coincidence of bureaucracy and
subsistence economy is understandable in view of the quite unique con-
ditions that existed in Egypt. And the reservations — and they are quite
considerable — which one must make in classifying this Egyptian struc-
ture as a bureaucracy are conditioned by the subsistence economy. A cer-
tain measure of a developed money economy is the normal precondition
BUREAUCRACY 205
for the unchanged and continued existence, if not for the estabUshment,
of pure bureaucratic administrations.
According to historical experience, without a money economy the
bureaucratic structure can hardly avoid undergoing substantial internal
changes, or indeed, turning into another type of structure. The allocation
of fixed income in kind, from the magazines of the lord or from his
current intake, to the officials easily means a first step toward appropria-
tion of the sources of taxation and their exploitation as private property.
This kind of allocation has been the rule in Egypt and China for thou-
sands of years and played an important part in the later Roman mon-
archy as well as elsewhere. The income in kind has protected the official
against the often sharp fluctuations in the purchasing power of money.
Whenever the lord's prerogatives have relaxed, the taxes in kind, as a
rule, have been irregular. In this case, the official has direct recourse to
the tributaries of his bailiwick, whether or not he is authorized. Close
at hand is the idea of securing the official against such oscillations by
mortgaging or transferring the levies and therewith the power to tax,
or by leasing profitable lands of the lord to the official for his own use.
Every central authority which is not strictly organized is tempted to take
this course either voluntarily or because the officials compel it to do so.
The official may satisfy himself with the use of these levies or loans up
to the level of his salary claim and then hand over the surplus. This im-
pHes strong temptation and therefore yields results chiefly unsatisfactory
to the lord. Another process involves fixing the official's salary : This often
occurred in the early history of German officialdom; and it happened on
the largest scale in all Eastern Satrap administrations: the official hands
over a stipulated amount and retains the surplus.
In such cases the official is economically in a position rather similar
to that of the entrepreneurial tax-farmer. Indeed, office-farming including
even the leasing of offices to the highest bidder is regularly found. On
the soil of a private economy, the transformation of the statutes of
villeftiage into tenancy relations is one of the most important among
numerous examples. By tenancy arrangements the lord can transfer the
trouble of changing his income-in-kind into money-income to the office
tenant or to the official who is to be given a fixed sum. This was plainly
the case with some Oriental regents in Antiquity. And above all, the
farming out of public collection of taxes in lieu of the lord's own man-
agement of taxgathering served this purpose. From this procedure there
develops the possibility for the lord to progress in the ordering of his
206 POWER
finances into a systematic budget. This is a very important advance, for
it means that a fixed estimate of the income, and correspondingly of the
expenses, c^yi taice the place of a hand-to-mouth living from incalculable
incomes in kind, a condition typical of all the early states of public
households. On the other hand, in systematizing his budget in this w^ay,
the lord renounces the control and full exploitation of his capacity to tax
for his own use. According to the measure of freedom left to the official,
to the office, or to the tax-farmer, the lasting capacity to pay taxes is en-
dangered by inconsiderate exploitation. For, unlike the political overlord,
the capitalist is not in the same way permanently interested in the sub-
ject's ability to pay.
The lord seeks to safeguard himself against this loss of control by
regulations. The mode of tax-farming or the transfer of taxes can thus
vary widely, according to the distribution of power between the lord
and the tenant. Either the tenant's interest in the free exploitation of ca-
pacity to pay taxes or the lord's interest in the permanence of this
capacity prevails.. The nature of the tax-farming system rests essentially
upon the joint or the opposing influence of these motives: the elimina-
tion of oscillations in the yields, the possibility of a budget, the safeguard-
ing of the subjects' capacity to pay by protecting them against uneco-
nomical exploitation, and a state control of the tax-farmer's yields for the
sake of appropriating the maximum possible. In the Ptolemaic empire, as
in Hellas and in Rome, the tax-farmer was still a private capitalist. The
raising of taxes, however, was bureaucratically executed and controlled
by the Ptolemaic state. The tenant's profit consisted in only a share of
the respective surplus over and above the tax-farmer's fee, which was, in
fact, only a guarantee. The tax-farmer's risk consisted in the possibility
of yields that were lower than this sum.
The purely economic conception of the office as a source of the official's
private income can also lead to the direct purchase of offices. This occurs
when the lord finds himself in a position in which he requires not only
a current income but money capital — for instance, for warfare or for
debt payments. The purchase of office as a regular institution has existed
in modern states, in the church state as well as in that of France and
England; it has existed in the cases of sinecures as well as of very serious
offices; and, in the case of officers' commissions, it lagged over until the
early nineteenth century. In individual cases, the economic meaning of
such a purchase of office can be altered so that the purchasing sum is
BUREAUCRACY 207
partly or wholly in the nature of bail deposited for faithful service, but
this has not been the rule.
Every sort of assignment of usufructs, tributes and services which are
due to the lord himself or to the official for personal exploitation, always
means a surrender of the pure type of bureaucratic organization. The
official in such positions has a personal right to the possession of his
office. This is the case to a still higher degree when official duty and
compensation are interrelated in such a way that the official does not
transfer to the lord any yields gained from the objects left to him, but
handles these objects for his private ends and in turn renders to the
lord services of a personal or a military, political, or ecclesiastical
character.
We wish to speak of 'prebends' and of a 'prebendal' organization -of
office, wherever the lord assigns to the official rent payments for life,
payments which are somehow fixed to objects or which are essentially I
economic usufruct from lands or other sources. They must be compensa- I
tions for the fulfilment of actual or fictitious office duties; they are goods f
permanently set aside for the economic assurance of the office.
The transition from such prebendal organization of office to salaried
officialdom is quite fluid. Very often the economic endowment of priest-
hoods has been 'prebendal,' as in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, and
even up to the modern period. But in almost all periods the same form
has been found in other areas. In Chinese sacerdotal law, the prebendal
character of all offices forced the mourning official to resign his office.
For during the ritual mourning period for the father or other household
authorities abstention from the enjoyment of possessions was prescribed.
Originally this prescription was aimed at avoiding the ill-will of the
deceased master of the house, for the house belonged to this master and
the office was considered purely as a prebend, a source for rent.
When not only ecpnomic rights but also lordly prerogatives are leased
for personal execution with the stipulation of personal services to the
lord, a further step away from salaried bureaucracy is taken. These
leased prerogatives vary; for instance, with the political official, they
may be in the nature of landlordism or in the nature of office authority.
In both instances, and certainly in the latter, the specific nature of bureau-
cratic organization is completely destroyed and we enter the organiza-
tional realm of feudal dominion. All kinds of assignments of services
and usufructs in kind as endowments for officials tend to loosen the
bureaucratic mechanism, and especially to weaken hierarchic subordina-
208 POWER
tion. This subordination is most strictly developed in the discipline of
modern officialdom. A precision similar to the precision of the con-
tractually employed official of the modern Occident can only be attained
— at least under very energetic leadership — where the subjection of the
officials to the lord is personally absolute, where slaves, or employees
treated like slaves, are used for administration.
The Egyptian officials were slaves of the Pharaoh, if not legally, at
least in fact. The Roman latifundia owners liked to commission slaves
with the direct management of money matters, because of the possibility
of subjecting them to torture. In China, similar results have been sought
by the prodigial use of the bamboo as a disciplinary instrument. The
chances, however, for such direct means of coercion to function with
steadiness are extremely unfavorable. According to experience, the rela-
tive optimum for the success and maintenance of a strict mechanization
of the bureaucratic apparatus is offered by a secured money salary con-
nected with the opportunity of a career that is not dependent upon mere
accident and arbitrariness. Strict discipline and -control, which at the same
time has consideration for the official's sense of honor, and the develop-
ment of prestige sentiments of the status group, as well as the possibility
of public criticism, work in the direction of strict mechanization. With
all this, the bureaucratic apparatus functions more assuredly than does
any legal enslavement of functionaries. A strong status sentiment among
officials not only agrees with the official's readiness to subordinate him-
self to the chief without any will of his own, but — just as is the case with
the officer — status sentiments are the consequence of such subordination,
for internally they balance the official's self-feeling. The purely imper-
sonal character of office work, with its principled separation of the private
sphere of the official from that of the office, facilitates the official's inte-
gration into the given functional conditions of a fixed mechanism based
upon discipline.
Even though the full development of a money economy is not an
indispensable precondition for bureaucratization, bureaucracy as a perma-
nent structure is knit to the one presupposition of a constant income for
maintaining it. Where such an income cannot be derived from private
profits, as is the case with the bureaucratic organization of large modern
enterprises, or from fixed land rents, as with the manor, a stable system
of taxation is the precondition for the permanent existence of bureau-
cratic administration. For well-known and general reasons, only a fully
developed money economy offers a secure basis for such a taxation sys-
BUREAUCRACY 200
tern. The degree of administrative bureaucratization in urban communi-
ties with fully developed money economies has not infrequently been
relatively greater in the contemporary far larger states of plains. Yet
as soon as these plain states have been able to develop orderly systems
of tribute, bureaucracy has developed more comprehensively than in
city states. Whenever the size of the city states has remained confined
to moderate limits, the tendency for a plutocratic and collegial adminis-
tration by notables has corresponded most adequately to their structure.
4: The Quantitative Development of AnMiNisTRATunE Tasks
The proper soil for the bureaucratization of an administration has al-
ways been the specific developments of administrative tasks. We shall
first discuss the quantitative extension of such tasks. In the field of
politics, the great state and the mass party are the classic soil for bureau-
cratization.
This does not mean that every historically known and genuine forma-
tion of great states has brought about a bureaucratic administration. The
permanence of a once-existing great state, or the homogeneity of a culture
borne by such a state, has not always been attached to a bureaucratic
structure of state. However, both of these features have held to a great ex-
tent, for instance, in the Chinese empire. The numerous great Negro em-
pires, and similar formations, have had only an ephemerital existence
primarily because they have lacked an apparatus of officials. And the
unity of the Carolingian empire disintegrated when its organization of
officials disintegrated. This organization, however, was predominantly
patrimonial rather than bureaucratic in nature. From a purely temporal
view, however, the empire of the Caliphs and its predecessors on Asiatic
soil have lasted for considerable periods of time, and their organization
of office was essentially patrimonial and prebendal. Also, the Holy Roman
Empire lasted for a long time in spite of the almost complete absence
of bureaucracy. All these realms have represented a cultural unity of at
least approximately the same strength as is usually created by bureau-
cratic polities.
The ancient Roman Empire disintegrated internally in spite of in-
creasing bureaucratization and even during its very execution. This was
because of the way the tax burdens were distributed by the bureaucratic
state, which favored the subsistence economy. Viewed with regard to the
intensity of their purely political unities, the temporal existences of the
210 POWER
empires o£ the Caliphs, CaroHngian and other medieval emperors were
essentially unstable, nominal, and cohesive conglomerates. On the whole,
the capacity for political action steadily diminished, and the relatively
great unity of culture flowed from ecclesiastic structures that were in part
strictly unified and, in the Occidental Middle Ages, increasingly bureau-
cratic in character. The unity of their cultures resulted partly from the
far-going homogeneity of their social structures, which in turn was the
aftermath and transformation of their former political unity. Both are
phenomena of the traditional stereotyping of culture, which favors an
unstable equilibrium. Both of these factors proved so strong a foundation
that even grandiose attempts at expansion, such as the Crusades, could be
undertaken in spite of the lack of intensive poUtical unity; they were,
one might say, performed as 'private undertakings.' The failure of the
Crusades and their often irrational political course, however, is associated
with the absence of a unified and intensive state power to back them up.
And there is no doubt that the nuclei of intensive 'modern' states in
the Middle Ages developed concomitantly with bureaucratic structures.
Furthermore, in the end these quite bureaucratic political structures
undoubtedly shattered the social conglomerates, which rested essentially
upon unstable equilibriums.
The disintegration of the Roman Empire was partly conditioned by
the very bureaucratization of its army and official apparatus. This bu-
reaucratization could only be realized by carrying through at the same
time a method of taxation which by its distribution of burdens was
bound to lead to relative increase in the importance of a subsistence
economy. Individual factors of this sort always enter the picture. Also
the 'intensity' of the external and the internal state activities play their
part. Quite apart from the relation between the state influence upon cul-
ture and the degree of bureaucratization, it may be said that 'normally' —
though not without exception — the vigor to expand is directly related to
the degree of bureaucratization. For two of the most expansive polities,
the Roman Empire and the British world empire, during their most ex-
pansive periods, rested upon bureaucratic foundations only to a small
extent. The Norman state in England carried through a strict organiza-
tion on the basis of a feudal hierarchy. To a large extent, it received its
unity and its push through the bureaucratization of the royal exchequer,
which, in comparison to other political structures of the feudal period,
was extremely strict. Later on, the English state did not share in the
continental development towards bureaucratization, but remained an
BUREAUCRACY 211
administration of notables. Just as in the republican administration of
Rome, this English rule by notables was a result of the relative absence
of a continental character, as well as of absolutely unique preconditions,
which at the present time are disappearing. The dispensability of the
large standing armies, which a continental state with equally expansive
tendencies requires for its land frontiers, is among these special pre-
conditions. In Rome, bureaucratization advanced with the transition
from a coastal to a continental ring of frontiers. For the rest, in the
domination structure of Rome, the strictly military character of the
magistrate authorities — in the Roman manner unknown to any other
people — made up for the lack of a bureaucratic apparatus with its tech-
nical efficiency,^ its precision and unity of administrative functions,
especially outside the city limits. The continuity of administration was
safeguarded by the unique position of the Senate. In Rome, as in Eng-
land, one presupposition for this dispensability of bureaucracy which
should not be forgotten was that the state authorities increasingly 'mini-
mized' the scope of their functions at home. They restricted their func-
tions to what was absolutely demanded for direct 'reasons of state.'
At the beginning of the modern period, all the prerogatives of the
continental states accumulated in the hands of those princes who most
relentlessly took the course of administrative bureaucratization. It is obvi-
ous that technically the great modern state is absolutely dependent upon
a bureaucratic basis. The larger the state, and the more it is or the more
it becomes a great power state, the more unconditionally is this the case.
The United States still bears the character of a polity which, at least
in the technical sense, is not fully bureaucratized. But the greater the
zones of friction with the outside and the more urgent the needs for
administrative unity at home become, the more this character is inevita-
bly and gradually giving way formally to the bureaucratic structure.
Moreover, the partly unbureaucratic form of the state structure of the
United States is materially balanced by the more strictly bureaucratic
structures of those formations which, in truth, dominate politically,
namely, the parties under the leadership of professionals or experts in
organization and election tactics. The increasingly bureaucratic organi-
zation of all genuine mass parties offers the most striking example of
the role of sheer quantity as a leverage for the bureaucratization of a "
social structure. In Germany, above all, the Social Democratic party, and
abroad both of the 'historical' American parties are bureaucratic in the
greatest possible degree.
212 POWER
5: Qualitative Changes of Administrative Tasks
Bureaucratization is occasioned more by intensive and qualitative
enlargement and internal deployment of the scope of administrative
! tasks than by their extensive and quantitative increase. But the direction
\[ bureaucratization takes and the reasons that occasion it vary widely.
In Egypt, the oldest country of bureaucratic state administration, the
public and collective regulation of waterways for the whole country
and from the top could not be avoided because of technical economic
factors. This regulation created the mechanism of scribes and officials.
Once established, this mechanism, even in early times, found its second
realm of business in the extraordinary construction activities which were
organized militarily. As mentioned before, 'the bureaucratic tendency has
chiefly been influenced by needs arising from the creation of standing
*-*«'! armies as determined by power politics and by the development of pub-
lic finance connected with the military establishment. In the modern
state, the increasing demands for administration rest on the increasing
complexity of civilization and push towards bureaucratization.
Very considerable expansions, especially overseas, have, of course, been
managed by states ruled by notables (Rome, England, Venice), as will
. become evident in the appropriate context. Yet the .'.inteJlsity' of the
administration, that is, the transfer of as many tasks as possible to the
organization of the state proper for continuous management and dis-
charge, has been only slightly developed among the great states ruled
, by notables, especially Rome and England, if we compare them with
!jj^ bureaucratic polities.
Both in notable and bureaucratic administrations the structure of state
''ti power has influenced culture very strongly. But it has done so relatively
slightly in the form of management and control by the state. This holds
from justice down to education. The growing demands on culture, in
turn, are determined, though to a varying extent, by the growing wealth
of the most influential strata in the state. To this extent increasing
bureaucratization is a function of the increasing possession of goods used
for consumption, and of an increasingly sophisticated technique of fash-
ioning external life — a technique which corresponds to the opportunities
provided by such wealth. This reacts upon the standard of living and
^' makes for an increasing subjective indispensability of organized, collec-
tive, inter-local, and thus bureaucratic, provision for the most varied
*''^lrf^.f^
BUREAUCRACY 2lt
wants, which previously were either unknown, or were satisfied locally
or by a private economy.
Among purely political factors, the increasing demand of a society,
accustomed to absolute pacification, for order and protection ('police')
in all fields exerts an especially persevering influence in the direction of
bureaucratization. A steady road leads from modifications of the blood
feud, sacerdotally, or by means of arbitration, to the present position of
the poHceman as the 'representative of God on earth.' The former means
placed the guarantees for the individual's rights and security squarely
upon the members of his sib, who are obligated to assist him with oath
and vengeance. Amon^ other factors, primarily the manifold tasks of the
so-called 'policy of social welfare', operate in the direction of bureaucrati-*"""*
zation, for these tasks are, in part, saddled upon the state by interest
groups and, in part, the state usurps them, either for reasons of power
policy or for ideological motives. Of course, these tasks are to a large
extent economically determined.
Among essentially technical factors, the specifically modern means of
communication enter the picture as pacemakers of bureaucratization.
Public land and water-ways, railroads, the telegraph, et cetera — they must,
in part, necessarily be administered in a public and collective way; in
part, such administration is technically expedient. In this respect, the
contemporary means of communication frequently play a role similar
to that of the canals of Mesopotamia and the regulation of the Nile in
the ancient Orient. The degree to which the means of communication
have been developed is a condition of decisive importance for the pos-
sibihty of bureaucratic administration, although it is not the only decisive
condition. Certainly in Egypt, bureaucratic centralization, on the basis
of an almost pure subsistence economy, could never have reached the
actual degree which it did without the natural trade route of the Nile.
In order to promote bureaucratic centralization in modern Persia, the
telegraph officials were officially commissioned with reporting all occur-
rences in the provinces to the Shah, over the heads of the local authori-
ties. In addition, everyone received the right to remonstrate directly by
telegraph. The modern Occidental state can be administered the way it
actually is only because the state controls the telegraph network and has —
the mails and railroads at its disposal.
Railroads, in turn, are intimately connected with the development of
an inter-local traffic of mass goods. This traffic is among the causal fac-
214 POWER
tors in the formation of the modern state. As we have already seen, this
does not hold unconditionally for the past.
6: Technical Advantages of Bureaucratic Organization
k The decisive reason for the advance of bureaucratic organization has
/ i always been its purely technical superiority over any other form of
r I'lOrganization. The fully developed bureaucratic mechamsSTTompares
with other organizations exactly as does the machine with the non-
mechanical modes of production.
Precision, speed, unambiguity, knowledge of the files, continuity, dis-
cretion, unity, strict subordination, reduction of friction and of material
and personal costs — these are raised to the optimum point in the stric^
bureaucratic administration, and especially in its monocratic form. As
compared with all collegiate, honorific, and avocational forms of admin-
istration, trained bureaucracy is superior on all these points. And as far
as complicated tasks are concerned, paid bureaucratic work is not only
more precise but, in the last analysis, it is often cheaper than even for-
mally unrernunerated honorific service. . ^
Honorific arrangements make administrative work an avocation and,
for this reason alone, honorific service normally functions more slowly;
being less bound to schemata and being more formless. Hence it is less
precise and less unified than bureaucratic work because it is less depend-
ent upon superiors and because the establishment and exploitation of
the apparatus of subordinate officials and filing services are almost un-
avoidably less economical. Honorific service is less continuous than
bureaucratic and frequently quite expensive. This is especially the case
if one thinks not only of the money costs to the public treasury — costs
which bureaucratic administration, in comparison with administration
by notables, usually substantially increases — but also of the frequent
economic losses of the governed caused by delays and lack of precision.
"^ — r The possibility of administration by notables normally and permanently
exists only where official management can be satisfactorily discharged as
(,. an avocation. With the qualitative increase of tasks the administration
I has to face, administration by notables reaches its limits — today, even in
England. Work organized by collegiate bodies causes friction and delay
and requires compromises between colliding interests and views. The
administration, therefore, runs less precisely and is more independent of
superiors; hence, it is less unified and slower. All advances of the Prus-
BUREAUCRACY 21 5
sian administrative organization have been and will in the future be
advances of the bureaucratic, and especially of the monocratic, principle.
1 Today, it is primarily the capitalist market economy which demands ^,
that the official business of the administration be discharged precisely,
unambiguously, continuously, and with as much speed as possible, Nor-
mally, the very"Targe, "modem capitalist enterprises are themselves un-
equalled models of strict bureaucratic organization. Business manage-
ment throughout rests on increasing precision, steadiness, and, above all,
the speed of operations. This, in turn, is determined by the peculiar
nature of the modern means of communication, including, among other
things, the news service of the press. The extraordinary increase in the
speed by which public announcements, as well as economic and political
facts, are transmitted exerts a steady and sharp pressure in the direction
of speeding up the tempo of administrative reaction towards various
situations. The optimum of such reaction time is normally attained only
by a strictly bureaucratic organization.*
Bureaucratization offers above all the optimum possibility for carrying
through the principle of specializing administrative functions according
to purely objective considerations. Individual performances are allocated
to functionaries who have specialized training and who by constant
practice learn more and more. The_ 'objective' discharge of business^ri-
marily means a discharge of business according to calculable rules and
*witTiout regard tor persons.'
'Without regard for persons' is also the watchword of the 'market'
and, in general, of all pursuits of naked economic interests. A consistent
execution of bureaucratic domination means the leveling of status
'honor.' Hence, if the principle of the free-market is not at the same
time restricted, it means the universal domination of the 'class situation.'
That this consequence of bureaucratic domination has not set in every-
where, parallel to the extent of bureaucratization, is due to the differences
among possible principles by which polities may meet their demands.
The second element mentioned, 'cakulable rules,' also is of paramount ^
importance for modern bureaucracy. The peculiarity of modern culture, *|'.
and specifically of its technical and economic basis, demands this very|ij
'calculability' of results. When fully developed, bureaucracy also stands,
in a specific sense, under the principle of sine ira ac studio. Its specific
* Here we cannot discuss in detail how the bureaucratic apparatus may, and actually
does, produce definite obstacles to the discharge of business in a manner suitable for the
single case.
2l6 POWER
nature, which is welcomed by capitaHsm, develops the more perfectly
the more the bureaucracy is 'dehumanized,' the more completely it^ suc-
ceeds in eliminating from official business love, hatred, and all purely
personal, irrational, and emotional elements which escape calculation.
This is the specific nature of bureaucracy and it is appraised as its special
virtue.
The more complicated and specialized modern culture becomes^ the
more its external supporting apparatus demands the personally detached^
and strictly 'objective' expert, in lieu of the master of older social struc-
tures, who was moved by personal sympathy and favor, by grace and
gratitude. Bureaucracy offers the attitudes demanded by the external
apparatus of modern culture in the most favorable combination. As a
i rule, only bureaucracy has established the foundation for the adminis-
j tration of a rational law conceptually systematized on the basis of such
' enactments as the latter Roman imperial period first created with a high
degree of technical perfection. During the Middle Ages, this law wa«
received along with the bureaucratization of legal administration, that
is to say, with the displacement of the old trial procedure which was
bound to tradition or to irrational presuppositions, by the rationally
trained and specialized expert.
7: Bureaucracy and Law
The 'rational' interpretation of law on the basis of strictly formal con-
ceptions stands opposite the kind of adjudication that is primarily bound
to sacred traditions. The single case that cannot be unambiguously de-
cided by tradition is either settled by concrete 'revelation' (oracle, pro-
phetic dicta, or ordeal — that is, by 'charismatic' justice) or — and only
these cases interest us here— fby informal judgments rendered in terms
, of concrete ethical or other practical valuations. This is 'Kadi-justice,' as
R. Schmidt has fittingly called it. Or, formal judgments are rendered,
though not by subsumption under rational concepts, but by drawing on
'analogies' and by depending upon and interpreting concrete 'prece-
dents.' This is 'empirical justicej'
Kadi-justice knows no reasoned judgment whatever. Nor docs em-
pirical justice of the pure type give any reasons which in our sense could
be called rational. The concrete valuational character of Kadi-justice can
advance to a prophetic break with all tradition. Empirical justice, on the
other hand, can be sublimated and rationalized into a 'technology,' All
BUREAUCRACY 217
rion-bureaucratic forms of domination display a peculiar coexistence: on/
the one hand, there is a sphere of strict traditionalism, and, on the other,;
a sphere of free arbitrariness and lordly grace. Therefore, combinationsll
and transitional forms between these two principles are very frequent;
they will be discussed in another context.
Even today in England, as Mendelssohn has demonstrated, a broad
substratum of justice is actually Kadi-justice to an extent that is hardly
conceivable on the Continent. The justice of German juries which pre-
clude a statement of the reasons for their verdict often functions in prac-
tice in the same way as this EngUsh justice. In general, one has to be-
ware pf^beHeving^ that 'democratic' principles of justice are identical with
'rational' adjudication (in the sense of formal rationality). Indeed, the
contrary holds, as will be shown in another context. The English and
American adjudication of the highest courts is still to a great extent
empirical; and especially is it adjudication by precedents. In England,
the reason for the failure of all efforts at a rational codification of law,
as well as the failure to borrow Roman law, was due to the successful
resistance against such rationalization offered by the great and centrally
organized lawyers' guilds. These guilds formed a monopolistic stratum
of notables from whose midst the judges of the high courts of the realm
were recruited. They retained in their hands juristic training as an
empirical and highly developed technology, and they successfully fought
all moves towards rational law that threatened their social and material
position. Such moves came especially from the ecclesiastical courts and,
for a time, also from the universities.
The fight of the common law advocates against the Roman and
ecclesiastical law and the power of the church in general was to a consid-
erable degree economically caused by the lawyer's interest in fees; this is
distinctly evidenced by the way in which the king intervened in this
struggle. But the power position of the lawyers, who emerged victori-
ously from this struggle, was conditioned by political centralization. In
Germany, primarily for political reasons, a socially powerful estate of
notables was lacking. There was no estate which, like the English law-
yers, could have been the carriers of a national administration of law,
which could have raised national law to the level of a technology with
regulated apprenticeship, and which could have offered resistance to the
intrusion of the technically superior traming of jurists in Roman law.
\ That fact that Roman law was substantively better adjusted to the
> needs of emerging capitalism did not decide its victory on the Continent.
21 8 POWER
All legal institutions specific for modern capitalism are alien to Roman
law and are medieval in origin. What was decisive was the rational
form of Roman law and, above all, the technical necessity to place the
trial procedure in the hands of rationally trained experts, which meant
men trained in the universities and learned in Roman law. This training
was necessary because the increasing complexity of practical legal cases
' and the increasingly ^Rationalized economy demanded^ a rational proce-
_^ tclure of evidence*rather than the ascertainment of true facts by concrete
revelation or sacerdotal guarantee, which, of course, are the ubiquitous
and primeval means of proof. This legal situation was also determined
to a large extent by structural changes in the economy. This factor, how-
ever, was efficacious everywhere, including England, where the royal
power introduced the rational procedure of evidence for the sake of the
merchants. The predominant reasons for the differences, which still
exist, in the development of substantive law in England and Germany
do not rest upon this economic Jactor. As is already obvious, these differ-
ences have sprung from the lawfully autonomous development of the
respective structures of domination.
In England centralized justice and notable rule have been associated;
in Germany, at the same time, there is bureaucratization and an absence
of political centralization. England, which in modern times was the first
and most highly developed capitalist country, thereby retained a less
rational and less bureaucratic judicature. Capitalism in England, how-
ever, could quite easily come to terms with this, especially because the
nature of the court constitution and of the trial procedure up to the mod-
ern period amounted in effect to a far-going denial of justice to the eco-
nomically weak group?. This fact exerted a profound influence upon the
distribution of landholdings in England by favoring the accumulation
and immobilization of landed wealth. The length and expense of real
estate transfers, determined by the economic interests of the lawyers, also
worked in the same direction.
During the time of the Republic, Roman law represented a unique
mixture of rational and empirical elements, and even of elements of
Kadi-justice. The appointment of a jury as such, and the praetor's
actiones in factum, which at first undoubtedly occurred 'from one given
case to another,' contained an element of Kadi-justice. The baihng system
of Roman justice and all that grew out of it, including even a part of the
classic jurists' practice of responses, bore an 'empirical' character. The
decisive turn of juridical thought toward rational thinking was first pre-
BUREAUCRACY 219
pared by the technical nature of the instruction for trial procedure at
the hands of the praetorian edict's formula, which were geared to legal
conceptions. Today, under the dominance of the principle of substantia-
tion, the presentation of facts is decisive, no matter from what legal point
of view they may make the complaint seem justified. A similar compul-
sion to bring out the scope of the concepts unambiguously and formally
is now lacking; but such a compulsion was produced by the technical
culture of Roman law at its very height. Technical factors of trial pro-
cedure thus played their part in the development of rational law, factors
which resulted only indirectly from the structure of the state. The ration-
alization_of_Rom^ri law into a closed system of concepts to be scientifi-
cally handled was brought to perfection only during the period when
the polity itself underwent bureaucratization. This rational and system-
atic quality sets off Roman law sharply from all law produced by tKe'^
Orient or by Hellenic Greece.
The rabbinic responses of the Talmud is a typical example of empir-
ical justice that is not rational but 'rationalist,' and at the same time
strictly fettered by tradition. Every prophetic verdict is in the end pure
Kadi-justice, unfettered by tradition, and follows the schema: 'It is writ-
ten . . . but I say unto you.' The more strongly the religious nature of
the Kadi's (or a similar judge's) position is emphasized, the more freely
the judgment of the single case prevails and the less it is encumbered by
rules within that sphere of its operation which is not fettered by sacred
tradition. For a generation after the occupation of Tunisia by the French,
for instance, a very tangible handicap for capitalism remained in that the
ecclesiastic court (the Chard) decided over land holdings by 'free discre-
tion,' as the Europeans put it. We shall become acquainted with the
sociological foundation of these older types of justice when we discuss
the structures of domination in another context.
It is perfectly true that 'matter-of-factness' and 'expertness' are sot
necessarily identical with the rule of general and abstract norms. Indeed,
this does not even hold in the case of the modern administration of
justice. In principle, the idea of *a law without gaps' is, of course, vig-
orously disputed. The conception of the modern judge as an automaton
into which the files and the costs are thrown in order that it may spill
forth the verdict at the bottom along with the reasons, read mechanically
from codified paragraphs — this conception is angrily rejected, perhaps
because a certain approximation to this type is implied by a consistent
bureaucratization of justice. In the field of court procedure there are
{
'»
220 POWER
areas in which the bureaucratic judge is directly held to 'individuaHzing'
procedures by the legislator.
For the field of administrative activity proper, that is, for all state
activities that fall outside the field of law creation and court procedure,
one is accustomed to claiming the freedom and paramountcy of indi-
vidual circumstances. General norms are held to play primarily a nega-
tive role as barriers to the official's positive and 'creative' activity, which
should never be regulated. The bearing of this thesis may be disregarded
here. Yet the point that this 'freely' creative administration (and possibly
judicature) does not constitute a realm of free, arbitrary action, of mercy,
and of personally motivated favor and valuation, as we shall find to be
the case among pre-bureaucratic forms, is a very decisive point. The
rule and the rational estimation of 'objective' purposes, as well as devo-
tion to them, always exist as a norm of conduct. In the field of executive
administration, especially where the 'cre.Ttive' arbitrariness of the official
is most strongly built up, the specifically modern and strictly 'objective'
i idea of 'reasons of state' is upheld as the supreme and ultimate guiding
star of the official's behavior.
ut course, and above all, the sure instincts of the bureaucracy for the
conditions of maintaining its power in its own state (and through
it, in opposition to other states) are inseparably fused with the canoniza-
tion of the abstract and 'objective' idea of 'reasons of state.' In the last
analysis, the power interests of the bureaucracy only give a concretely
exploitable content to this by no means unambiguous ideal; and, in du-
bious cases, power interests tip the balance. We cannot discuss this further
here. The only decisive point for us is that in £rinciple_a_system of
rationally debatable 'reasons' stands behind every act of bureaucratic
, administration, that is, either subsumption under norms or a weighing
of ends and means. "
The position of all 'democratic' currents, in the sense of currents that
would minimize 'authority,' is necessarily ambiguous. 'Equality before
, the law' and the demand for legal guarantees against arbitrariness de-
mand a formal and rational 'objectivity' of administration, as opposed to
the personally free discretion flowing from the 'grace' of the old patri-
monial domination. If, however, an 'ethos' — not to speak of instincts —
takes hold of the masses on some individual question, it postulates sub-
stantive justice oriented toward some concrete instance and person; and
such an 'ethos' will unavoidably collide with the formalism and the rule-
BUREAUCRACY 221
bound and cool 'matter-o£-factness' of bureaucratic administration. For
this reason, the ethos must emotionally reject what reason demands.
The propertyless masses especially are not served by a formal 'equality
before the law' and a 'calculable' adjudication and administration, as
demanded by 'bourgeois' interests. Naturally, in their eyes justice and
administration should serve to compensate for their economic and social
life-opportunities in the face of the propertied classes. Justice and admin-
istration can fulfil this function only if they assume an informal char-
acter to a far-reaching extent. It must be informal because it is substan-
tively 'ethical' ('Kadi-justice'). Every sort of 'popular justice' — which "^
usually does not ask for reasons and norms — as well as every sort of
intensive influence on the administration by so-called public opinion,
crosses the rational course of justice and administration just as strongly,
and under certain conditions far more so, as the 'star chamber' proceed-
ings of an 'absolute' ruler has been able to do. In this connection, that is,
under the conditions of mass democracy, public opinion is communal
conduct born of irrational 'sentiments.' Normally it is staged or directed
by party leaders and the press.
8: The Concentration of the Means of Administration
, The Jjureaucratic structure goes hand in hand with the concentration I'i
of the material means of managemenT m the hands of the master. This!"
concentration occurs, for instance, in a well-known and typical fashion,
in the development of big capitalist enterprises, which find their essential
characteristics in this process. A corresponding process occurs in public
organizations.
The bureaucratically led army of the Pharaohs, the army during the
later period of the Roman republic and the principate, and, above all,
the army of the modern military state are characterized by the fact that
their equipment and provisions are supplied from the magazines of
the war lord. This is in contrast to the folk armies of agricultural tribes,
the armed citizenry of ancient cities, the militias of early medieval cities,
and all feudal armies; for these, the self-equipment and the self-pro-
visioning of those obliged to fight was normal.
War in our time is a war of machines. And this makes magazines
technically necessary, just as the dominance of the machine in industry
promotes the concentration of the means of production and manage-
ment. In the main, however, the bureaucratic armies of the past, equipped
222 POWER
and provisioned by the lord, have risen when social and economic devel-
opment has absolutely or relatively diminished the stratum of citizens
M^ho were economically able to equip themselves, so that their number
was no longer sufficient for putting the required armies in the field.
They were reduced at least relatively, that is, in relation to the range of
power claimed for the polity. Only the bureaucratic army structure
allowed for the development of the professional standing armies which
are necessary for the constant pacification ot large states or the plains,
as well as for warfare against far-distant enemies, especially enemies
fl overseas. Specifically, miHtary discipline and technical training_c^iT_ be
f^'^^f normally and fully developed, at least to Itslnodern high level, only in
"J the bureaucratic army.
* Historically, the bureaucratization of the army has everywhere been
realized along with the transfer of army service from the propertied to
the propertyless. Until this transfer occurs, military service is an honorific
privilege of propertied men. Such a transfer was made to the native-
born unpropertied, for instance, in the armies of the generals of the late
Roman republic and the empire, as well as in modern armies up to the
nineteenth century. The burden of service has also been transferred to
strangers, as in the mercenary armies of all ages. This process typically
goes hand in hand with the general increase in material and intellectual
culture. The following reason has also played its part everywhere: the
increasing density of population, and therewith the intensity and strain
of economic work, makes for an increasing 'indispensability' of the
acquisitive strata ^ for purposes of war. Leaving aside periods of strong
ideological fervor, the propertied strata of sophisticated and especially of
urban culture as a rule are little fitted and also little inclined to do the
coarse war work of the common soldier. Other circumstances being
equal, the propertied strata of the open country are at least usually better
qualified and more strongly inclined to become professional officers.
This difference between the urban and the rural propertied is balanced
only where the increasing possibiUty of mechanized warfare requires
the leaders to qualify as 'technicians.'
The bureaucratization of organized warfare may be carried through
in the form of private capitalist enterprise, just like any other business.
Indeed, the procurement of armies and their administration by private
capitalists has been the rule in mercenary armies, especially those of the
Occident up to the turn of the eighteenth century. During the Thirty
Years' War, in Brandenburg the soldier was still the predominant owner
BUREAUCRACY 223
of the material implements of his business. He owned his weapons,
horses, and dress, although the state, in the role, as it were, of the mer-
chant of the 'putting-out system,' did supply him to some extent. Later
on, in the standing army of Prussia, the chief of the company owned
the material means of warfare, and only since the peace of Tilsit has the
concentration of the means of warfare in the hands of the state definitely
come about. Only with this concentration was the introduction of
uniforms generally carried through. Before then, the introduction of
uniforms had been left to a great extent to the arbitrary discretion of the
regimental officer, with the exception of individual categories of troops
to whom the king had 'bestowed' certain uniforms, first, in 1620, to the
royal bodyguard, then, under Frederick II, repeatedly.
Such terms as 'regiment' and 'battalion' usually had quite different
meanings in the eighteenth century from the meanings they have today.
Only the battalion was a tactical unit (today both are); the 'regiment'
was then a managerial unit of an economic organization established by
the colonel's position as an 'entrepreneur.' 'Official' maritime ventures
(like the Genoese maonae) and army procurement belong to private
capitalism's first giant enterprises of far-going bureaucratic character.
In this respect, the 'nationalization' of these enterprises by the state has
its modern parallel in the nationalization of the railroads, which have ;_
been controlled by the state from their beginnings. -^
In the same way as with army organizations, the bureaucratization of
administration goes hand in hand with the concentration of the means
of organization in other spheres. The old administration by satraps and
regents, as well as administration by farmers of office, purchasers of
office, and, most of all, administration by feudal vassals, decentralize
the material means of administration. The local demand of the province
and the cost of the army and of subaltern officials are regularly paid for
in advance from local income, and only the surplus reaches the central
treasure. The enfeoffed official administers entirely by payment out of ^
his own pocket. The bureaucratic state, however, puts its whole admin-, L
istrative expense on the budget and equips the lower authorities with the i
current means of expenditure, the use of which the state regulates and -^
controls. This has the same meaning for the 'economics' of the adminis- |
tration as for the large centralized capitalist enterprise. '^
/ In the field of scientific research and instruction, the bureaucratization
of the always existing research institutes of the universities is a function
of the increasing demand for material means of management.^Liebig's
^ A-
224 POWER
laboratory at Giessen University was the first example of big enterprise
in this field. Through the concentration of such means in the hands of
the privileged head of the institute, the mass of researchers and docents
are separated from their 'means of production,' in the same way as
capitalist enterprise has separated the workers from theirs.
In spite of its indubitable technical superiority, bureaucracy has every-
where been a relatively late development. A number of obstacles have
contributed to this, and only under certain social and political conditions
have they definitely receded into the background.
9: The Leveling of Social Differences
''' Bureaucratic organization has usually come into power on the basis_
of a leveling of economic and social differences. This leveling has been
at least relative, and has concerned the significance of social and eco-
nomic differences for the assumption of administrative functions.
V Bureaucracy inevitably accompanies modern mass democracy in con-
^ trast to the democratic self-government of small homogeneous units.
5X/'^ ' This results from the characteristic principle of bureaucracy: the abstract
-^ regularity of the execution of authority, which is a result of the demarjd
for 'equality before the law' in the personal and functional sense—hence,
of the horror of 'privilege,' and the principled rejection of doing business
'from case to case.' Such regularity also follows from the social precon-
ditions of the origin of bureaucracies. The non-bureaucratic administra-
tion of any large social structure rests in some way upon the fact that
existing social, material, or honorific preferences and ranks are connected
with administrative functions and duties. This usually means that a
direct or indirect economic exploitation or a 'social' exploitation of posi-
tion, which every sort of administrative activity gives to its bearers, is
equivalent to the assumption of administrative functions.
Bureaucratization and democratization within the administration of
^ the state therefore signify and increase the cash expenditures of -the
public treasury. And this is the case in spite of the fact that buireau-
cratic administration is usually more 'economical' in character than other
forms of administration. Until recent times — at least from the point of
view of the treasury — the cheapest way of satisfying the need for admin-
istration was to leave almost the entire local administration and lower
judicature to the landlords of Eastern Prussia. The same fact applies to
the administration of sheriffs in England. Mass democracy makes a
BUREAUCRACY 225
clean sweep of the feudal, patrimonial, and — at least in intent — the pluto-
cratic privileges in administration. Unavoidably it puts paid professional
labor in place of the historically inherited avocational administration by i|' >fe:.c^
notables.
This not only applies to structures of the state. For it is no accident
that in their own organizations, the democratic mass parties have com-
pletely broken with traditional notable rule based upon personal rela-
tionships and personal esteem. Yet such personal structures frequently
continue among the old conservative as well as the old liberal parties. / '-
Democratic mass parties are bureaucratically organized under the lead-
ership of party officials, professional party and trade union secretaries,
et cetera. In Germany, for instance, this has happened in the Social
Democratic party and in the agrarian mass-movement; and in England,
for the first time, in the caucus democracy of Gladstone-Chamberlain,
which was originally organized in Birmingham and since the 1870's has
spread. In the United States, both parties since Jackson's administration
have developed bureaucratically. In France, however, attempts to organ-
ize disciplined political parties on the basis of an election system that
would compel bureaucratic organization have repeatedly failed. The
resistance of local circles of notables against the ultimately unavoidable
bureaucratization of the parties, which would encompass the entire coun-
try and break their influence, could not be overcome. Every advance of
the simple election techniques, for instance the system of proportional elec-
tions, which calculates with figures, means a strict and inter-local bureau-
cratic organization of the parties and therewith an increasing domina-
tion of party bureaucracy and discipline, as well as the elimination of
the local circles of notables — at least this holds for great states.
The progress of bureaucratization in the state administration itself is |[ "]
a parallel phemmienorrioF^^'^^^^^^y' '^^ ^^ quite obvious in France,
North America, and now in England. Of course one must always re-
member that the term 'democratization' can be misleadmg. Ihe demos
itself, in the sense of an inarticulate mass, never 'governs' larger associa-i
tions; rather, it is governed, and its existence only changes the way ini
which the executive leaders are selected and the measure of influence
which the demos, or better, which social circles from its midst are able
to exert upon the content and the direction of administrative activities
by supplementing what is called 'public opinion.' 'Democratization,' in
the sense here intended, does not necessarily mean an increasingly active
226 POWER
share of the governed in the authority o£ the social structure. This may
be a result of democratization, but it is not necessarily the case.
We must expressly recall at this point that the political concept of
[: democracy, deduced from the 'equal rights' of the governed;,"^ includes
' these postulates: (i) prevention of the development of a closed status
group of officials in the interest of a universal accessibility of office, and
(2) minimization of the authority of officialdom in the interest of
expanding ^ the sphere of influence of 'public opinion' as far as practi-
cable. Hence, wherever possible, political democracy strives to shorten the
term of office by election and recall and by not binding the candidate to
a special expertness. Thereby democracy inevitably comes into conflict
with the bureaucratic tendencies which, by its fight against notable rule,
democracy has produced. The generally loose term 'democratization'
cannot be used here, in so far as it is understood to mean the minimiza-
tion of the civil servants' ruling power in favor of the greatest possible
'direct' rule of the demos, which in practice means the respective party
V leaders of the demos. The most decisive thing here — indeed it is rather
exclusively so — is the leveling of the governed in opposition to the ruling
and bureaucratically articulated group, which in its turn may occupy a
quite autocratic position, both in fact and in form.
In Russia, the destruction of the position of the old landed nobility
through the regulation of the Mjeshtshitelstvo (rank order) and the
permeation of the old nobility by an office nobility were characteristic
transitional phenomena in the development of bureaucracy. In China,
the estimation of rank and the qualification for office according to the
number of examinations passed mean something similar, but they have
had consequences which, in theory at least, are still sharper. In France,
the Revolution and still more Bonapartism have made the bureaucracy
all-powerful. In the Catholic Church, first the feudal and then all inde-
pendent local intermediary powers were eliminated. This was begun
by Gregory VII and continued through the Council of Trent, the Vatican
Council, and it was completed by the edicts of Pius X. The transforma-
tion of these local powers into pure functionaries of the central authority
were connected with the constant increase in the factual significance of
the formally quite dependent chaplains, a process which above all was
based on the political party organization of Catholicism. Hence this
..'process meant an advance of bureaucracy and at the same time of
'passive democratization,' as it were, that is, the leveling of the gov-
erned. The substitution of the bureaucratic army for the self-equipped
BUREAUCRACY
227
army of notables is everywhere a process of 'passive' democratization, in
the sense in which every establishment of an absolute military monarchy
in the place of a feudal state or of a republic of notables is. This has
held, in principle, even for the development of the state in Egypt in
spite of all the peculiarities involved. Under the Roman principate the
bureaucratization of the provincial administration in the field of tax
collection, for instance, went hand in hand with the elimination of the
plutocracy of a capitalist class, which, under the Republic, had been
all-powerful. Ancient capitaHsm itself was finally eliminated with this
stroke.
It is obvious that almost always economic conditions of some sort
play their part in such 'democratizing' developments. Very frequently
we meet with the influence of an economically determined origin of
new classes, whether plutocratic, petty bourgeois, or proletarian in char-
acter. Such classes may call-£)n the aid of, or they may only call to life or
recall to life, a political power, no matter whether it is of legitimate or
of Caesarist stamp. They may do so in order to attain economic or social
advantages by political assistance. On the other hand, there are equally
possible and historically documented cases in which initiative came
'from on high' and was of a purely political nature and drew advan-
tages from political constellations, especially in foreign affairs. Such
leadership exploited economic and social antagonisms as well as class
interests merely as a means for their own purpose of gaining purely
political power. [For this reason, political authority has thrown the antag-
onistic classes out of their almost always unstable equilibrium and called
their latent interest conflicts into battle. It seems hardly possible to give
a general statement of this.
The extent and direction of the course along which economic influ-
ences have moved, as well as the nature in which political power relations
exert influence, vary widely. In Hellenic Antiquity, the transition to
disciplined combat by Hoplites, and in Athens, the increasing impor-
tance of the navy laid the foundation for the conquest of political power
by the strata on whose shoulders the military burden rested. In Rome,
however, the same development shook the rule of the office nobility
only temporarily and seemingly. Although the modern mass army has
everywhere been a means of breaking the power of notables, by itself it
has in no way served as a leverage for active, but rather for merely
passive, democratization. One contributing factor, however, has been the
fact that the ancient citizen army rested economically upon self-equip-
228 POWER
ment, whereas the modern army rests upon the bureaucratic procure-
ment of requirements.
The advance of the bureaucratic structure rests upon 'technical' superi-
' ority. This fact leads here, as in the whole field of technique, to the
following: the advance has been realized most slowly where older struc-
tural forms have been technically well developed and functionally ad-
justed to the requirements at hand. This was the case, for instance, in
the administration of notables in England and hence England was the
slowest of all countries to succumb to bureaucratization or, indeed, is
still only partly in the process of doing so. The same general phenom-
enon exists when highly developed systems of gaslight or of steam rail-
roads with large and fixed capital offer stronger obstacles to electrifi-
cation than in completely new areas which are opened up for electrifi-
cation.
10 : The Permanent Character of the Bureaucratic Machine
t ' ]>^ Once it is fully estabHshed, bureaucracy is among those social struc-
tures which are the hardest to destroy. Bureaucracy is the means of carry-
\ ing 'community action' over into rationally ordered 'societal action.'
Therefore, as an instrument for 'societalizing' relations of power, bu-
reaucracy has been and is a power instrument of the first order — for
the one who controls the bureaucratic apparatus.
Under otherwise equal conditions, a 'societal action,' which is method-
ically ordered and led, is superior to every resistance of 'mass' or even
of 'communal action.' And where the bureaucratization of administra-
tion has been completely carried through, a form of power relation is
established that is practically unshatterable.
The individual bureaucrat cannot squirm out of the apparatus in
which he is harnessed. In contrast to the honorific or avocational 'nota-
ble,' the professional bureaucrat is chained to his activity by his entire
material and ideal existence. In the great majority of cases, he is only
a single cog in an ever-moving mechanism which prescribes to him
an essentially fixed route of march. The official is- entrusted with
specialized tasks and normally the mechanism cannot be put into motion
or arrested by him, but only from the very top. The individual bureau-
- crat is thus forged to the community of all the functionaries who are
integrated into the mechanism. They have a common interest in seeing
BUREAUCRACY 229
that the mechanism continues its functions and that the societally exer-
cised authority carries on.
The ruled, for their part, cannot dispense with or replace the bureau-
cratic apparatus of authority once it exists. For this bureaucracy rests
upon expert training, a functional specialization of work, and an attitude
set for habitual and virtuoso-like mastery of single yet methodically
integrated functions. If the official stops working, or if his work is force-
fully interrupted, chaos results, and it is difficult to improvise replace-
ments from among the governed who are fit to master such chaos. This
holds for public administration as well as for private economic manage-
ment./More and more the material fate of the masses depends upon the
steady and correct functioning of the increasingly bureaucratic organiza-
tions of private capitalism. The idea of eliminating these organizations
becomes more and more Utopian.
The discipHne of officialdom refers to the attitude-set of the official
for precise obedience within his habitual activity, in public as well as in
private organizations. This discipline increasingly becomes the basis of
all order, however great the practical importance of administration on
■the basis of the filed documents may be. The naive idea of Bakuninism
of destroying the basis of 'acquired rights' and 'domination' by destroy-
ing public documents overlooks the settled orientation of man for keep-
ing to the habitual rules and regulations that continue to exist independ-
ently of the documents. Every reorganization of beaten or dissolved
troops, as well as the restoration of administrative orders destroyed by
revolt, panic, or other catastrophes, is realized by appealing to the trained
orientation of obedient compliance to such orders. Such compliance has
been conditioned into the officials, on the one hand, and, on the other
hand, into the governed. If such an appeal is successful it brings, as it
were, the disturbed mechanism into gear again.
The objective indispensability of the once-existing apparatus, with its
peculiar, 'impersonal' character, means that the mechanism — in contrast
to feudal orders based upofi personal piety — is easily made to work for
anybody who knows how to gain control over it. A rationally ordered
system of officials continues to function smoothly after the enemy has
occupied the area; he merely needs to change the top officials. This body
of officials continues to operate because it is to the vital interest of every-
one concerned, including above all the enemy.
During the course of his long years in power, Bismarck brought his
ministerial colleagues into unconditional bureaucratic dependence by
230 POWER
eliminating all independent statesmen. Upon his retirement, he saw to
his surprise that they continued to manage their offices unconcerned and
undismayed, as if he had not been the master mind and creator of these
creatures, but rather as if some single figure had been exchanged for
some other figure in the bureaucratic machine. With all the changes of
masters in France since the time of the Fircf Empire, the power machine
has remained essentially the same. Such a machine makes 'revolution,'
in the sense of the forceful creation of entirely new formations of author-
ity, technically more and more impossible, especially when the apparatus
controls the modern means of communication (telegraph, et cetera) and
also by virtue of its internal rationaHzed structure. In classic fashion,
France has demonstrated how this process has substituted coups d'etat
for 'revolutions': all successful transformations in France have amounted
to coups d'etat.
11: Economic and Social (J^onsequences of Bureaucracy
It is clear that the bureaucratic organization of a social structure, and
especially of a political one, can and regularly does have far-reaching eco-
nomic consequences. But what sort of consequences.'' Of course in any
individual case it depends upon the distribution of economic and social
power, and especially upon the sphere that is occupied by the emerging
bureaucratic mechanism. The consequences of bureauaracydepend there-
fore upon the direction which the power§_ using the appaiiitus give
to it. And very frequently a crypto-plutocratic disrrihurion of power has
been the result. -^
In England, but especially in the United States, party donors regularly
stand behind the bureaucratic party organizations. They have financed
these parties and have been able to influence them to a large extent.
The breweries in England, the so-called 'heavy industry,' and in Ger-
many the Hansa League with their voting funds are well enough known
as pohtical donors to parties. In modern times bureaucratization and
social leveling within political, and particularly within state organiza-
tions in connection with the destruction of feudal and local privileges,
have very frequently benefited the interests of capitaHsm. Often bureauc-
ratization has been carried out in direct alliance with capitalist interests,
for example, the great historical alliance of the power of the absolute
prince with capitalist interests. In general, a legal leveling and destruction
of firmly established local structures ruled by notables has usually made
BUREAUCRACY 23 1
for a wider range of capitalist activity.' Yet one may expect as an effect
of bureaucratization, a policy that meets the -petty bourgeois interest in
a secured traditional 'subsistence,' or even a state socialist policy that
strangles opportunities for private profit. This has occurred in several
cases of historical and far-reaching importance, specifically during an-
tiquity; it is undoubtedly to be expected as a future development. Perhaps
it will occur in Germany.
The very different effects of political organizations which were, at
least in principle, quite similar — in Egypt under the Pharaohs and in
Hellenic and Roman times — show the very different economic signifi-
cances of bureaucratization which are possible according to the direction
of other factors. The mere fact of bureaucratic organization does not
unambiguously tell us about the concrete direction of its economic
effects, which are always in some manner present. At least it does not
tell us as much as can be told about its relatively leveling effect socially. •,*("
In this respect, one has to remember that bureaucracy as such is a pre-
cision instrument which can put itself at the disposal of quite varied —
purely political as well as purely economic, or any other sort — of interests
in domination. Therefore, the measure of its parallelism with democ-
ratization must not be exaggerated, however typical it may be. Under
certain conditions, strata of feudal lords have also put bureaucracy into
their service. There is also the possibility — and often it has become a fact, <^cA"^)r
for instance, in the Roman principate and in some forms of absolutist ^^^\.-
state structures — that a bureaucratization of administration is deliber- ^^
ately connected with the formation of estates, or is entangled with them
by the force of the existing groupings of social power. The express
reservation of offic.es for certain status groups is very frequent, and actual -
reservations are even more frequent. The democratization of society in |,
its totality, and in the modern sense of the term, whether actual or per- i|
haps mer-ely formal, is an especially favorable basis of bureaucratization, '"*t
but by no means the only possible one^ After all, bureaucracy strives
merely to level those powers that stand in its way and in those areas -
that, in the individual case, it seeks to occupy. We must remember this
fact — which we have encountered several times and which we shall have i
to discuss repeatedly: that 'democracy' as such is opposed to the 'rule' of | ^
bureaucracy, ' n spite and perhaps because of its unavoidable yet unin- f
tended promotion of bureaucratization. Under certain conditions, democ-
racy creates obvious ruptures and blockages to bureaucratic organization.
232 POWER
Hence, in every individual historical case, one must observe in what
" special direction bureaucratization has developed.
12: The Pov^^r Position of Bureaucracy
Everywhere the modern state is undergoing bureaucratization. But
whetheFthe piC^r^ of hureaucfMy'^wixhin the polity is universallyliii:,
creasing must here remain an open question.
The fact that bureaucratic organization is technically the most highly
developed means of power in the hands of the man who controls itHoes
1^ not determine the weight that bureaucracy as such is capable of having
in a particular sociaT structure. The ever-increasing 'indispensability' of
the officialdom, swollen to millions, is no more decisive for this question
than is the view of some representatives of the proletarian movement
, ^ that the economic indispensability of the proletarians is decisive for the
^ »!.V measure of their social and poHtical power position. If 'indispensability'
•^ ' were decisive, then where slave labor prevailed 'and where freemen
usually abhor work as a dishonor, the 'indispensable' slaves ought to
have held the positions of power, for they were at least as indispensable
^ as officials and proletarians are today. Whether the power of bureauc-
racy as such increases cannot be decided a priori^ixom. such reasons.
The drawing in of economic interest groups or other non-official experts,
or the drawing in of non-expert lay representatives, the establishment of
local, inter-local, or central parliamentary or other representative bodies,
or of occupational associations — these seem to run directly against the
bureaucratic tendency. How far this appearance is the truth must be
discussed in another chapter rather than in this purely formal and typo-
logical discussion. In general, only the following can be said here:
Under normal conditions, the power position of a fully developed
bureaucracy is always overtowering. The 'political master' finds himself
in the position of the 'dilettante' who stands opposite the 'expert,' facing
the trained official who stands within the management of administra-
tion. This holds whether the 'master' whom the bureaucracy serves is a
'people,' equipped with the weapons of 'legislative initiative,' the 'refer-
endum,' and the right to remove officials, or a parliament, elected on a
more aristocratic or more 'democratic' basis and equipped with the right
to vote a lack of confidence, or with the actual authority to vote it. It
holds whether the master is an aristocratic, collegiate body, legally or
BUREAUCRACY 233
actually based on self-recruitment, or whether he is a popularly elected
president, a hereditary and 'absolute' or a 'constitutional' monarch.
^ Every bureaucracy seeks to increase the superiority of the profession- \
ally informed by keeping their knowledge and intentions secret. Bureau- .'I
cratic administration always tends to be an administration of 'secret I
sessions': in so far as it can, it hides its knowledge and action from
criticism. Prussian church authorities now threaten to use disciplinary
measures against pastors who make reprimands or other admonitory
measures in any way accessible to third parties. They do this because
the pastor, in making such criticism available, is 'guilty' of facilitating a
possible criticism of the church authorities. The treasury officials of the
Persian shah have made a secret doctrine of their budgetary art and even
use secret script. The official statistics of Prussia, in general, make public
only what cannot do any harm to the intentions of the power-wielding
bureaucracy. The tendency toward secrecy in certain administrative fields
follows their material nature: everywhere that the power interests of
the domination structure toward the outside are at stake, whether it is
an economic competitor of a private enterprise, or a foreign, potentially
hostile polity, we find secrecy.,Tf it is to be successful, the management
of diplomacy can only be publicly controlled to a very Hmited extent.
The military administration must insist on the concealment of its most
important measures; with the increasing significance of purely technical
aspects, this is all the more the case. Political parties do not proceed
differently, in spite of all the ostensible publicity of Catholic congresses
and party conventions. With the increasing bureaucratization of party
organizations, this secrecy will prevail even more. Commercial policy,
in Germany for instance, brings about a concealment of production
statistics. Every fighting posture of a social structure toward the outside
tends to buttress the position of the group in power.
The pure interest of the bureaucracy in power, however, is efficacious
far beyond those areas where purely functional interests make for
secrecy. The concept of the 'official secret' is the specific invention of
bureaucracy, and nothing is so fanatically defended by the bureaucracy
as this attitude, which cannot be substantially justified beyond these
specifically qualified areas. In facing a parliament, the bureaucracy, out
of a sure power instinct, fights every attempt of the parliament to gain
234 POWER
knowledge by means of its own experts or from interest groups. The
so-called right of parliamentary investigation is one of the means by
which parliament seeks such knowledge. Bureaucracy naturally wel-
"~ comes a poorly informed and hence a powerless parliament — at least
in so far as ignorance somehow agrees with the bureaucracy's interests.
The absolute monarch is powerless opposite the superior knowledge
' of the bureaucratic expert — in a certain sense more powerless than any
other political head. All the scornful decrees of Frederick the Great con-
cerning the 'abolition of serfdom' were derailed, as it were, in the course
of their realization because the official mechanism simply ignored them
as the occasional ideas of a dilettante. When a constitutional king agrees
with a socially important part of the governed, he very frequently exerts
a greater influence upon the course of administration than does the
/'absolute monarch. The constitutional king can control these experts
- better because of what is, at least relatively, the public character of crit-
/ icism, whereas the absolute monarch is dependent for information solely
"^ upon the bureaucracy. The Russian czar of the old regime was seldom
able to accomplish permanently anything that displeased his bureaucracy
and hurt the power interests of the bureaucrats. His ministerial depart-
ments, placed directly under him as the autocrat, represented a con-
glomerate of satrapies, as was correctly noted by Leroy-Beaulieu. These
satrapies constantly fought against one another by all the means of
personal intrigue, and, especially, they bombarded one another with
voluminous 'memorials,' in the face of which, the monarch, as a dilet-
tante, was helpless.
With the transition to constitutional government, the concentration of
the power of the central bureaucracy in one head became unavoidable.
;i Officialdom was placed under a monocratic head, the prime minister,
through whose hands everything had to go before it got to the monarch.
This put the latter, to a large extent, under the tutelage of the chief of
the bureaucracy. Wilhelm II, in his well-known conflict with Bismarck,
fought against this principle, but he had to withdraw his attack very
soon. Under the rule of expert knowledge, the actual influence of the
""" monarch can attain steadiness only by a continuous communication
with the bureaucratic chiefs; this intercourse must be methodically
planned and directed by the head of the bureaucracy.
At the same time, constitutionalism binds the bureaucracy and the
ruler into a cormnunity of interests against the desires of party chiefs
for power in the parliamentary bodies. And if he cannot find support in
BUREAUCRACY 235
parliament the constitutional monarch is powerless against the bureauc-
racy. The desertion of the 'Great of the Reich,' the Prussian ministers
and top officials of the Reich in November 19 18, brought a monarch into
approximately the same situation as existed in the feudal state in 1056.
However, this is an exception, for, on the whole, the power position of
a monarch opposite bureaucratic officials is far stronger than it was in
any feudal state or in the 'stereotyped' patrimonial state. This is because
of the constant presence of aspirants for promotion, with whom the
monarch can easily replace inconvenient and independent officials. Other
circumstances being equal, only economically independent officials, that
is, officials who belong to the propertied strata, can permit themselves to
risk the loss of their offices. Today as always, the recruitment of officials
from among propertyless strata increases the power of the rulers. Only
officials who belong to a socially influential stratum, whom the mon-
arch believes he must take into account as personal supporters, like
the so-called Kanalrebellen in Prussia,® can permanently and completely
paralyse the substance of his will.
/ Only the. expert knowledge of private economic interest groups in the
\ field of 'business' is superior to the expert knowledge of the bureaucracy.
This is so because the exact knowledge of facts in their field is vital to
the economic existence of businessmen. Errors in official statistics do not
have direct economic consequences for the guilty official, but errors in
the calculation of a capitaHst enterprise are paid for by losses, perhaps by
its existence. The 'secret,' as a means of power, is, after all, more safely
hidden in the books of an enterpriser than it is in the files of public
authorities. For this reason alone authorities are held within narrow
barriers when they seek to influence economic life in the capitalist
epoch. Very frequently the measures of the state in the field of capitalism
take unforeseen and unintended courses, or they are made illusory by the
superior expert knowledge of interest groups.
13: Stages in the Development of Bureaucracy
-^Y^^^
More and more the spjciaHzed knowledge of the expert became the
foundation for the power position of the officeholder. Hence an early
concern of the ruler was how to exploit the special knowledge of experts
without having to abdicate in their favor but preserve his dominant
position. With the qualitative extension of administrative tasks and
therewith the indispensability of expert knowledge, it typically happens
236 POWER
that the lord no longer is satisfied by occasional consultation with indi-
vidual and proved confidants or even with an assembly of such men
called together intermittently and in difficult situations. The lord begins
to surround himself with collegiate bodies who deliberate and resolve in
continuous session.* The Rate von Hans aus^ is a characteristic transi-
tional phenomenon in this development.
The position of such collegiate bodies naturally varies according to
whether they become the highest administrative authority, or whether a
central and monocratic authority, or several such authorities stand at
their side. In addition, a great deal depends upon their procedure. When
/the collegiate type is fully developed, such bodies, in principle or in fic-
tion, meet with the lord in the chair and all important matters are
elucidated from all points of view in the papers of the respective experts
and their assistants and by the reasoned votes of the other members.
The matter is then settled by a resolution, which the lord will sanction
f/^ or reject by an edict. This kind of collegiate body is the typical form
/^tA . in which the ruler, who increasingly turns into a ^dilettante/ at the same
time exploits expert knowledge and — what frequently remains unnoticed
— seeks to fend off the overpowering weight of expert knowledge and
to maintain his dominant position in the face of experts. He keeps one
expert in check by others and by such cumbersome procedures he seeks
personally to gain a comprehensive picture as well .as the certainty that
nobody prompts him to arbitrary decisions. Often the prince expects to
assure himself a maximum of personal influence less from personally
presiding over the collegiate bodies than from having written memo-
randa submitted to him. Frederick William I of Prussia actually exerted
a very considerable influence on the administration, but he almost never
attended the coUegiately organized sessions of the cabinet ministers! He
rendered his decisions on written presentations by means of marginal
comments or edicts. These decisions were delivered to the ministers by
the Feld jaeger of the Cabinett, after consultation with those servants who
belonged to the cabinet and were personnally attached to the king.
The hatred of the bureaucratic departments turns against the cabinet
^ just as the distrust of the subjects turns against the bureaucrats in case
of failure. The cabinet in Russia, as well as in Prussia and in other
states, thus developed into a personal fortress in which the ruler, so to
* Consdl d'Etat, Privy Council, Generaldirektoritim , Cabinett, Divan, Tsung-li Yamen,
Wai-wti pti, etc.
BUREAUCRACY 237
speak, sought refuge in the face of expert knowledge and the impersonal
and functional routinization of administration.
v^By the collegiate principle the ruler furthermore tries to fashion a sort T
of synthesis of specialized experts into a collective unit. His success in \
doing this cannot be ascertained in general. The phenomenon itself,
however, is common to very different forms of state, from the patri-
monial and feudal to the early, bureaucratic, and it is especially typical
for early princely absolutism. [The collegiate principle has proved itself
to be one of the strongest educative means for 'matter-of-factness' in
administration. It has also made possible the drawing in of socially
influential private persons and thus to combine in some measure the
authority of notables and the practical knowledge of private enterprisers
with the specialized expertness of professional bureaucrats. The collegiate
bodies were one of the first institutions to allow the development of the
modern concept of 'public authorities,' in the sense of enduring struc-
tures independent of the person.
As long as an expert knowledge of administrative affairs was the
exclusive product of a long empirical practice^ and administrative norms
were not regulations but elements of tradition, the council of elders —
in a manner typical often with priests, 'elder statesmen,' and notables
participating — was the adequate form for collegiate authorities, which
in the beginning merely gave advice to the ruler. But as such bodies
continued to exist in the face of changing rulers, they often usurped y
actual power. The Roman Senate and the Venetian Council, as well as
the Athenian Areopag until its downfall and replacement by the rule of
the demagogos acted in this manner. We must of course sharply distin-
guish such authorities from the corporate bodies under discussion here.
,. In spite of manifold transitions, collegiate bodies, as a type, emerge on
the basis of the rational specialization of functions and the rule of expert ! »
knowledge. On the other hand, they must be distinguished from ad-
visory bodies selected from among private and interested circles, which
are frequently found in the modern state and whose nucleus is not formed
of officials or of former officials. These collegiate bodies must also be
distinguished sociologically from the boards of control found in the
bureaucratic structures of the modern private economy (economic cor-
porations). This distinction must be made in spite of the fact that such
corporate bodies not infrequently complete themselves by drawing in
notables from among disinterested circles for the sake of their expert
knowledge or in order to exploit them for representation and advertis-
238 POWER
ing. Normally, such bodies do not unite holders of special expert knowl-
edge but rather the decisive representatives of paramount economic inter-
est groups, especially the bank creditors of the enterprise — and such
men by no means hold merely advisory positions. They have at least a
controlling voice, and very often they occupy an actually dominant posi-
tion. They are to be compared (not without some distortion) to the
assemblies of the great independent holders of feudal fiefs and offices
and other socially powerful interest groups of patrimonial or feudal
polities. Occasionally, however, these have been the precursors of the
'councilors' who have emerged in consequence of an increased intensity
of administration. And even more frequently they have been precursors
of corporations of legally privileged estates. ^_.,»_«.
With great regularity the bureaucratic collegiate principle' has been
. transferred from the central authority to the most varied lower authoji-
tie^. Within locally closed, and especially within urban units, collegiate
administration is the original form of the rule of notables, as was indi-
cated at the beginning of this discussion. Originally it worked through
elected, later on, usually, or at least in part, through co-opted 'coun-
cilors,' collegiate bodies of 'magistrates,' decuriones, and 'jurors.' Such
bodies are a normal element of organized 'self-government,' that is, the
management of administrative affairs by local interest groups under the
control of the bureaucratic authorities of the state. The above-mentioned
examples of the Venetian Council and even more so of the Roman Sen-
ate represent transfers of notable rule to great overseas empires. Normally
,such a rule of notables is rooted in local political associations. Within
if . . ....
/{the bureaucratic state, collegiate administration disappears as soon as
''I progress in the means of communication and the increasing technical
Jj demands of administration necessitate quick and unambiguous deci-
l| sions, and as soon as the dominant motives for full bureaucratization
iPand monocracy, which we discussed above, push to the fore. Collegiate
3 administration disappears when from the point of view of the ruler's
Jl interests a strictly unified administrative leadership appears to be more
important than thoroughness in the preparation of administrative deci-
sions. This is the case as soon as parliamentary institutions develop and
— usually at the same time — as criticism from the outside and publicity
increase.
Under these modern conditions the thoroughly rationalized system of
departmental ministers and prefects, as in France, offers significant oppor-
tunities for pushing the old forms into the background. Probably the
BUREAUCRACY 239
system is supplemented by the calling in of interest groups as advisory
bodies recruited from among the economically and socially most influen-
tial strata. ;Trhis practice, which I have mentioned above, is increasingly
frequent and gradually may well be ordered more formally.
This latter development seeks especially to put the concrete experience
of interest groups into the service of a rational administration of experdy
trained officials. It will certainly be important in the future and it further
increases the power of bureaucracy. It is known that Bismarck sought to
realize the plan of a 'national economic council' as a means of power
against parliament. Bismarck, who would never have given the Reichstag
the right of investigation in the sense of the British Parliament, re-
proached the majority, who rejected his proposal, by stating that in the
interest of parliamentary power the majority sought to protect officialdom
from becoming 'too prudent.' Discussion of the position of organized
interest groups within the administration, which may be in the offing,
does not belong in this context.
Only with the bureaucratization of the state and of law in general
can one see a definite possibility of separating sharply and conceptually
an 'objective' legal order from the 'subjective rights' of the individual I*
which it guarantees; of separating 'public' law from 'private' law. Public ''
law regulates the interrelationships of public authorities and their rela-
tionships with the 'subjects'; private law regulates the relationships of
the governed individuals among themselves. This conceptual separation
presupposes the conceptual separation of the 'state,' as an abstract bearer;
of sovereign prerogatives and the creator of 'legal norms,' from all per- ; !
sonal 'authorizations' of individuals. These conceptual forms are neces-
sarily remote from the nature of pre-bureaucratic, and especially from
patrimonial and feudal, structures of authority. This conceptual separa-
tion of private and public was first conceived and realized in urban
communities; for as soon as their officeholders were secured by periodic
elections, the individual power-holder, even if he was in the highest
position, was obviously no longer identical with the man who possessed
authority 'in his own right.' Yet it was left to the complete depersonaliza-
tion of administrative management by bureaucracy and the rational
systematization of law to realize the separation of public and private
fully and in principle.
240 ^ POWER
14: The 'Rationalization' of Education and TrainIi«ig
We cannot here analyze the far-reaching and general cultural effects
that the advance of the rational bureaucratic structure of domination, as
such, develops quite independently of the areas in which it takes hold.
Naturally, bureaucracy promotes a 'rationalist' way of life, but the con-
^rcept of rationalism allows for widely differing contents. Quite generally,
!cne can only say that the bureaucratization of all domination very
strongly furthers the development of 'rational matter-oF-factness' and
■ the personality type of the professional expert. This has far-reaching
ramifications, but only one important element of the "pfoce5]r"can"be
: briefly indicated here: its effect upon the nature of training and edu-
,; cation.
Educational institutions on the European continent, especially the
institutions of higher learning — the universities, as well as technical
academies, business colleges, gymnasiums, and other middle schools —
are dominated and influenced by the need for the kind of 'education'
that produces a system of special examinations and the trained expert-
ness that is increasingly indispensable for modern bureaucracy.
The 'special examination,' in the present sense, was and is found also
outside of bureaucratic structures proper; thus, today it is found in the
'free' professions of medicine and law and in the guild-organized trades.
Expert examinations are neither indispensable to nor concomitant
phenomena of bureaucratization. The French, English, and American
bureaucracies have for a long time foregone such examinations entirely
or to a large extent, for training and service in party organizations have
made up for them.
'Democracy' also takes an ambivalent stand in the face of specialized
examinations, as it does in the face of all the phenomena of bureaucracy
— although democracy itself promotes these developments. Special exam-
inations, on the one hand, mean or appear to mean a 'selection' of. those
who quahfy from all social strata rather than a rule by notables. On the
other hand, democracy fears that a merit system and educational certifi-
cates will result in a privileged 'caste.' Hence, democracy fights against
the special-examination system.
The special examination is found even in pre-bureaucratic or semi-
bureaucratic epochs. Indeed, the regular and earliest locus of special
examinations is among prebendally organized dominions. Expectancies
BUREAUCRACY 24I
of prebends, first of church prebends — as in the Islamite Orient and in
the Occidental Middle Ages — then, as was especially the case in China,
secular prebends, are the typical prizes for which people study and are
examined. These examinations, however, have in truth only a partially
specialized and expert character.
"^Thejnodern development ofjull bureaucratization brings the^steng
of rational, specialized, jnd expert examinations irresistibly to the fore. ,
The civil-service reform gradually imports expert training and special-
ized examinations into the United States. In all other countries this
system also advances, stemming from its main breeding place, Germany.
The increasing bureaucratization of administration enhances the im-
portance of the specialized examination in England. In China, the
attempt to replace the semi-patrimonial and ancient bureaucracy by a
modern bureaucracy brought the expert examination; it took the place
of a former and quite differently structured system of examinations. The
bureaucratization of capitalism, with its demand for expertly trained
technicians, clerks, et cetera, carries such examinations all over the world.
Above all, the development is greatly furthered by the social prestige of
the educational certificates acquired through such specialized examina-
tions. This is all the more the case as the educational patent is turned
to economic advantage. Today, the certificate of education becomes what
the test for ancestors has been in the past, at least where the nobility has
remained powerful: a prerequisite for equality of birth, a qualification
for a canonship, and for state office. Vs©dt» c>r5'»'«^**^*'*
■^The development of the diploma from universities, and busiaess and
engineering colleges, and the universal clamor for the creation of educa-
tional certificates in all fields make for the formation of a privileged
stratum in bureaus and in offices. Such certificates support their holders'
claims for intermarriages with notable families (in BiTsIhess offices people
naturally hope for preferment with regafd'to the chief's daughter),
claims to be admitted into the circles that adhere to 'codes of honor,'
claims for a 'respectable' remuneration rather than remuneration for
work done, claims for assured advancement and old-age insurance, and,
above all, claims to monopolize socially and economically advantageous
positions. When we hear from all sides the demand for an introduction
of regular curricula and special examinations, the reason behind It is, of
course, not a suddenly awakened 'thirst for education' but the desire for
restricting the supply for these positions and their monopolization by the
owners of educational certificates. Today, the 'examination' is the uni-
242 POWER
versal means of this monopolization, and therefore examinations irre-
sistibly advance. As the education prerequisite to the acquisition of the
educational certificate requires considerable expense and a period of
waiting for full remuneration,! this striving means a setback for talent
(charisma) in favor of property. For the 'intellectual' costs of educational
certificates are always low, and with the increasing volume of such
certificates, their intellectual costs do not increase, but rather decrease.
The requirement of a chivalrous style of life in the old qualification
for fiefs in Germany is replaced by the necessity of participating in its
present rudimental form as represented by the dueling corps of the
universities which also distribute the educational certificates. In Anglo-
Saxon countries, athletic and social clubs fulfil the same function. The
' -' bureaucracy, on the other hand, strives everywhere for a 'right to the
office' by the establishment of a regular disciplinary procedure and by
removal of the completely arbitrary disposition of the 'chief over the
subordinate official. The bureaucracy seeks to secure the official position,
the orderly advancement, and the provision for old age. ' In this, the
bureaucracy is supported by the 'democratic' sentiment of the governed,
which demands that domination be minimized. Those who hold this
attitude believe themselves able to discern a weakening of the master's
prerogatives in every weakening of the arbitrary disposition of the mas-
ter over the officials. To this extent, bureaucracy, both in business offices
and in public service, is a carriernof^^petifiL 'status' de^elopme_nt, as
have been the quite differently structured officeholders of the past. We
have already pointed out that these status characteristics are usually also
exploited, and that by their nature they contribute to the technical use-
fulness of the bureaucracy in fulfilling its specific tasks.
, 'Democracy' reacts precisely against the unavoidable 'status' character
! of bureaucracy. Democracy seeks to put the election of officials for short
I terms In the place of appointed officials; it seeks to substitute the removal
I of officials by election for a regulated procedure of discipline. Thus,
4 democracy seeks to replace the arbitrary disposition of the hierarchically
*" ^. superordinate 'master' by the equally arbitrary disposition of the gov-
1 erned and the party chiefs dominating them.
Social prestige based upon the advantage of special education and
training as such is by no means specific to bureaucracy. On the contrary!
But educational prestige in other structures of domination rests upon
substantially different foundations. . i
Expressed in slogan-like fashion, the 'cultivated man,' rather than
BUREAUCRACY 243
the 'specialist,' has been the end sought by education and has formed
the basis of social esteem in such various systems as the feudal, theo-
cratic, and patrimonial structures of dominion: in the English notable
administration, in the old Chinese patrimonial bureaucracy, as well as
under the rule of demagogues in the so-called Hellenic democracy.
^,The term 'cultivated man' is used here in a completely value-neutral
sense; it is understood to mean solely that the goal of education con-
sists in the quality of a man's bearing in life which was considered
'cultivated,' rather than in a specialized training for expertness. The
'cultivated' personality formed the educational ideal, which was stamped
by the structure of domination and by the social condition for member-
ship in the ruhng stratum. Such education aimed at a chivalrous or an
ascetic type; or, at a literary type, as in China; a gymnastic-humanist
type, as in Hellas; or it aimed at a conventional type, as in the case of
the Anglo-Saxon gentleman. The quaHfication of the ruling stratum as
such rested upon the possession of 'more' cultural quality (in the abso-
lutely changeable, value-neutral sense in which we use the term here),
rather than upon 'more' expert knowledge. Special military, theological,
and juridical abihty was of course intensely practiced; but the point of
gravity in Hellenic, in medieval, as well as in Chinese education, has
rested upon educational elements that were entirely different from what
was 'useful' in one's specialty.
Behind all the present discussions of the foundations of the educa-
tional system, the struggle of the 'specialist type of man' against the older
type of 'cultivated man' is hidden at some decisive point. This fight is
determined by the irresistibly expanding bureaucratization of all public
and private relations of authority and by the ever-increasing importance
of expert and specialized knowledge. This fight intrudes into all intimate
cultural questions.
During its advance, bureaucratic organization has had to overcome
those essentially negative obstacles that have stood in the way of the level-
ing process necessary for bureaucracy. In addition, administrative struc-
tures based on different principles intersect with bureaucratic organiza-
tions. Since these have been touched upon above, only some especially im-
portant structural fiinciples will be briefly discussed here in a very simpli-
fied schema. We would be led too far afield were we to discuss all the
actually existing types. We shall proceed by asking the following ques-
tions :
I. How far are administrative structures subject to economic determina-
244 POWER
tion? Or, how far are opportunities for development created by other
circumstances, for instance, the purely political? Or, finally, how far are
developments created by an 'autonomous' logic that is solely of the tech-
nical structure as such?
2. We shall ask whether or not these structural principles^ in turn, re-
lease specific economic effects, and if so, what effects. In doing this, one
of course from the beginning has to keep his eye on the fluidity and the
overlapping transitions of all these organizational principles. Their 'pure'
types, after all, are to be considered merely as border cases which are
especially valuable and indispensable for analysis. Historical realities,
which almost always appear in mixed forms, have moved and still move
between such pure types.
The bureaucratic structure is everywhere a late product of development.
The further back we trace our steps, the more typical is the absence of
bureaucracy and officialdom in the stru':ture of domination. Bureaucracy
has a 'rational' character : rules, means, ends, and matter-of-factness domi-
nate its bearing. Everywhere its origin and its diffusion have therefore
had 'revolutionary' results, in a special sense, which has still to be discussed.
This is the same influence which the advance of rationalism in general ,
has had. The march of bureaucracy has destroyed structures of domination ''
which had no rational character, in the special sense of the term. Hence,
we may ask : What were these structures ? *
* In chapters following the present one in Wirtschajt iind Gesellschaft, Weber discusses
Patriarchialism, Patrimonialism, Feudalism, and Charismatic Authority. Chapter ix of the
present volume presents a short discussion of charismatic authority. For comments on the
other concepts, see the end of Chapter xi. For the way in which Weber analyzes a '
specific bureaucracy in terms of intersecting structural principles, sec Chapter xvii.
iJL. Ine Oociology ol C^narisniatic Autnority
I : The General Character of Charisma
Bureaucratic and patriarchal structures are antagonistic in many ways,
yet theyjiave in common a most important peculiarity: permanience. In
this respect they are both institutions of daily routine.'Patriarchal power
especially is rooted in the provisioning of recurrent and normal needs of
the workaday life. Patriarchal authority thus has its original locus in the
economy, that is, in those branches of the economy that can be satisfied
by means of normal routine. The patriarch is the 'natural leader' of the
daily routine. And in this respect, the bureaucratic structure is only the
counter-image of patriarchalism transposed into rationality. As a per-
manent structure with a system of rational rules, bureaucracy is fashioned
to meet calculable and recurrent needs by means of a normal routine.
The provisioning of all demands that go beyond those of everyday
routine has had, in principle, an entirely heterogeneous, namely, a
charismatic, foundation; the further back we look in history, the more
we find this to be the case. This means that the 'natural' leaders — in
times of psychic, physical, economic, ethical, religious, political distress —
have been neither officeholders nor incumbents of an 'occupation' in the
present sense of the word, that is, men who have acquired expert knowl-
edge and who serve for remuneration. The natural leaders in distress
have been holders of specific gifts of the body and spirit; and these gifts
have been believed to be supernatural, not accessible to everybody. The
concept of 'charisma' is here used in a completely 'value-neutral' sense.
The capacity of the Irish culture hero, Cuchulain, or of the Homeric
Achilles for heroic frenzy is a manic seizure, just as is that of the
Arabian berserk who bites his shield like a mad dog — biting around until
he darts off in raving bloodthirstiness. For a long time it has been main-
tained that the seizure of the berserk is artificially produced through
Wirtschuft unci Gesellscliujt, part in, chap, g, pp. 753-7.
245
246 POWER
acute poisoning. In Byzantium, a number of 'blond beasts,' disposed to
such seizures, were kept about, just as war elephants were formerly kept.
Shamanist ecstasy is linked to constitutional epilepsy, the possession and
the testing of which represents a charismatic qualification. Hence neither
is 'edifying' to our minds. They are just as little edifying to us as is the
kind of 'revelation,' for instance, of the Sacred Book of the Mormons,
which, at least from an evaluative standpoint, perhaps would have to be
called a 'hoax.' But sociology is not concerned with such questions. In
the faith of their followers, the chief of the Mormons has proved himself
to be charismatically qualified, as have 'heroes' and 'sorcerers.' All of
them have practiced their arts and ruled by virtue of this gift (charisma)
and, where the idea of God has already been clearly conceived, by virtue
of the divine mission lying therein. This holds for doctors and prophets,
just as for judges and military leaders, or for leaders of big hunting
expeditions.
It is to his credit that Rudolf Sohm brought out the sociological pecu-
liarity of this category of domination-structure for a historically important
special case, namely, the historical development of the authority of the
early Christian church. Sohm performed this task with logical con-
sistency, and hence, by necessity, he was one-sided from a purely historical
point of view. In principle, however, the very same state of affairs recurs
universally, although often it is most clearly developed in the field of
religion.
In contrast to any kind of bureaucratic organization of offices, the
charismatic structure knows nothing of a form or oF an ordered pro-
cedure of appointment or dismissal. It knows no regulated 'career,' 'ad-
vancement,' 'salary,' or regulated and expert training of the holder of
charisma or of his aids. It knows no agency of control or appeal, no
local bailiwicks or exclusive functional jurisdictions; nor does it embrace
permanent institutions like our bureaucratic 'departments,' which are
independent of persons and of purely personal charisma.
"f Charisma^ knows only inner determination and inner restraint. The
holder, of charisma seizes the task that is adequate for him and demands
obedience and a following by virtue of his mission. His success deter-
mines whether he finds them. His charismatic claim breaks down if his
mission is not recognized by those to whom he feels he has been sent.
If they recognize him, he is their master — so long as he knows how to
maintain recognition through 'proving' himself.^^But he does not derive
his 'right' from their will, in the manner of an election. Rather, the
THE SOCIOLOGY OF CHARISMATIC AUTHORITY 247
reverse holds : it is the duty of those to whom he addresses his mission
tor^cognize him as their charismatically qualified leader. /^
In Chinese theory, the emperor's prerogatives are made dependent
upon the recognition of the people. But this does not mean recognition
of the sovereignty of the people any more than did the prophet's neces-
sity of getting recognition from the believers in the early Christian com-
munity. The Chinese theory, rather, characterizes the charismatic nature
of the monarch's position, which adheres to his personal qualification
and to his proved worth.
Charisma can be, and of course regularly is, qualitatively particular-
ized. This is an internal rather than an external affair, and results in the'
quahtative barrier of the charisma holder's mission and power. In mean-
ing and in content the mission may be addressed to a group of men who
are delimited locally, ethnically, socially, politically, occupationally, or in
some other way. If the mission is thus addressed to a hmited group of
men, as is the rule, it finds its limits within their circle.
In its economic sub-structure, as in everything else, charismatic dom-
ination is the very opposite of bureaucratic domination. If bureaucratic
domination depends upon regular income, and hence at least a potiori
on a money economy and money taxes, charisma lives in, though not off,
this world. This has to be properly understood. Frequently charisma
quite deliberately shuns the possession of money and of pecuniary income
per se, as did Saint Francis and many of his like; but this is of course
not the rule. Even a pirate genius may exercise a 'charismatic' domina-
tion, in the value-neutral sense intended here. Charismatic political heroes
seek booty and, above all, gold. But charisma, and this is decisive, always
rejects as undignified any pecuniary gain that is methodical and rational.
In general, charisma rejects all rational economic conduct.
The sharp contrast between charisma and any 'patriarchal' structure
that rests upon the ordered base of the 'household' lies in this rejection
of rational economic conduct. In its 'pure' form, charisma is never a
source of private gain for its holders in the sense of economic exploita-
tion by the making of a deal. Nor is it a source of income in the form of
pecuniary compensation, and just as little does it involve an orderly taxa-
tion for the material requirements of its mission. If the mission is one of
peace, individual patrons provide the necessary means for charismatic
structures; or those to whom the charisma is addressed provide honorific
gifts, donations, or other voluntary contributions. In the case of charis-
matic warrior heroes, booty represents one of the ends as well as the
/
248 POWER
material means of the mission. 'Pure' charisma is contrary to all patri-
archal domination (in the sense of the term used here). It is the opposite
of all ordered economy. It is the very force that disregards economy. This
also holds, indeed precisely, where the charismatic leader is after the
acquisition of goods, as is the case with the charismatic warrior hero.
Charisma can do this because by its very nature it is not an 'institutional'
and permanent structure, but rather, where its 'pure' type is at work, it
is^the very opposite of the institutionally permanent.
A In order to do justice to their mission, the holders of charisma, the
master as well as his disciples and followers, must stand outside the ties
of iRls world, outside of routine occupations, as well as outside the rou-
tine obligations of family life. Bf he statutes of the Jesuit order precTudeThe
acceptance of church offices; the members of orders are forbidden to
own property or, according to the original rule of St. Francis, the order
as such is forbidden to do so. The priest and the knight of an order have
to live in celibacy, and numerous holders of a prophetic or artistic char-
isma are actually single. All this is indicative of the unavoidable separa-
tion from this world of those who partake ('viiriQog') of charisma. In these
respects, the economic conditions of participation in charisma may have
an (apparently) antagonistic appearance, depending upon the type of
charisma — artistic or religious, for instance — and the way of life flowing
from its meaning. Modern charismatic movements of artistic origin rep-
resent 'independents without gainful eniployment' (in everyday language,
rentiers). Normally such persons are the best qualified to follow a charis-
matic leader. This is just as logically consistent as was the medieval friar's
vow of poverty, which demanded the very opposite.
2: Foundations and Instability of Charismatic Authority
By its very nature, the existence of charismatic authority is specifically
unstable. The holder may forego his charisma; he may feel 'forsaken by
his God,' as Jesus did on the cross; he may prove to his followers that
'virtue is gone out of him.' It is then that his mission is extinguished,
and hope waits and searches for a new holder of charisma. The charis-
matic holder is deserted by his following, however, (only) because pure
charisma does not know any 'legitimacy' other than that flowing from
personal strength, that is, one which is constantly being proved. The
charismatic hero does not deduce his authority from codes and statutes,
as is the case with the jurisdiction of office; nor does he~deduce~his
THE SOCIOLOGY OF CHARISMATIC AUTHORITY 249
authority from tradkional custom or feudal vows of faith, as is the
case with patrimonial power.
The^chansjiiaticjeader gains and maintains authority solely by proving
his strength in life. If he wants to be a prophet, lie must perform mira- ,1
cles; if he wants to be a war lord, he must perform heroic deeds. Above-
all, however, [his divine mission must 'prove' itself in that those who
faithfully surrender to him must fare well. If they do not fare well, he is
obviously not the master sent by the gods.
This very serious meaning of genuine charisma evidently stands in radi-
cal contrast to the convenient pretensions of present rulers to a 'divine
right of kings,' with its reference to the 'inscrutable' will of the Lord,
'to whom alone the monarch is responsible.' The genuinely charismatic
ruler is responsible p^^cisel^Mtojhose whom he rules. He is responsible,
for but one thing, that he personally and actually be the God-willed_
master.
During these last decades we have witnessed how the Chinese mon-
arch impeaches himself before all the people because of his sins and
insufficiencies if his administration does not succeed in warding off some
distress from the governed, whether it is inundations or unsuccessful
wars. Thus does a ruler whose power, even in vestiges and theoretically,
is genuinely charismatic deport himself. And if even this penitence does
not reconcile the deities, the charismatic emperor faces dispossession and
death, which often enough is consummated as a propitiatory sacrifice.
Meng-tse's (Mencius') thesis that the people's voice is 'God's voice'
(according to him the only way in which God speaks!) has a very specific
meaning: if the people cease to recognize the ruler, it is expressly stated
that he simply becomes a private citizen; and if he then wishes to be
more, he becomes a usurper deserving of punishment. The state of affairs
that corresponds to these phrases, which sound highly revolutionary,
recurs under primitive conditions without any such pathos. The charis-
matic character adheres to almost all primitive authorities with the excep-
tion of domestic power in the narrowest sense, and the chieftain is often
enough simply deserted if success does not remain faithful to him.
The subjects may extend a more active or passive 'recognition' to the
personal mission of the charismatic master. His power rests upon this
purely factual recognition and springs from faithful devotion. It is devo-
tion to the extraordinary and unheard-of, to what is strange to all rule
and tradition and which therefore is viewed as divine. It is a devotion
born of distress and enthusiasm.
250 POWER
Genuine charismatic domination therefore knows of no abstract legal
codes and statutes and of no 'formal' way of adjudication. Its 'objective'
law emanates concretely from the highly personal experience of heavenly
grace and from the god-like strength of the hero. Charismatic domination
means a rejection of all ties to any external order k\ favor of the exclustVe_
glorification of the genuine mentality of the prophet and hero. Hence, its
attitude is revolutionary and transvalues everything; it makes a sovereign
break with all traditional or rational norms: 'It is written, but T say iin.tP
you.'
The specifically charismatic form of settling disputes is by way of the
prophet's revelation, by way of the oracle, or by way of 'Solomonic' arbi-
tration by a charismatically qualified sage. This arbitration is determined
by means of strictly concrete and individual evaluations, which, however,
claim absolute validity. Here lies the proper locus of 'Kadi-justice' in the
proverbial — not the historical — sense of the phrase. In its actual historical
appearance the jurisdiction of the Islamic Kadi is, of course, bound to
sacred tradition and is often a highly formalistic interpretation.
Only where these intellectual tools fail does jurisdiction rise to an
unfettered individual act valuing the particular .case; but then it does
indeed. Genuinely charismatic justice always acts in this manner. In its
pure form it is the polar opposite of formal and traditional bonds, and
it is just as free in the face of the sanctity of tradition as it is in the face
of any rationalist deductions from abstract concepts.
This is not the place to discuss how the reference to the aegum et
bonum in the Roman administration of justice and the original meaning
of English 'equity' are related to charismatic justice in general and to the
theocratic Kadi-justice of Islamism in particular.^ Both the aegum et
bonum and 'equity' are partly the products of a strongly rationalized
administration of justice and partly the product of abstract conceptions
of natural Jaw. In any case the ex bona fide contains a reference to the
'mores' of business Ufe and thus retains just as little of a genuine irrational
justice as does, for instance, the German judge's 'free discretion.'
Any kind of ordeal as a means of evidence is, of course, a derivative of
charismatic justice. But the ordeal displaces the personal authority of the
holder of charisma by a mechanism of rules for formally ascertaining the
divine will. This falls in the sphere of the 'routinization' of charisma,
with which we shall deal below.
the sociology of charismatic authority 25i
3: Charismatic Kingship
In the evolution of political charisma, kingship represents a particularly
important case in the historical development of the charismatic legiti-
mization of institutions. The king is everywhere primarily a war lord, and
kingship evolves from charismatic heroism.
In the form it displays in the history of civilized peoples, kingship is
not the oldest evolutionary form of 'political' domination. By 'pofiTical"
domination is meant a power that reaches beyond and which is, in
principle, distinct from domestic authority» It is distinct because, in the
first place, it is not devoted to leading the peaceful struggle of man with
nature; it is, rather, devoted to leading in the violent conflict of one
human community with another.
The predecessors of kingship were the holders of all those charismatic
powers that guaranteed to remedy extraordinary external and internal
distress, or guaranteed the success of extraordinary ventures.y The chief-
tain of early history, the predecessor of kingship, is still a dual figure.
On the one hand, he is the patriarchal head of the family or sib, and on
the other, he is the charismatic leader of the hunt and war, the sorcerer,
the rainmaker, the medicine man — and thus the priest and the doctor —
and finally, the arbiter. Often, yet not always, such charismatic functions
are spht into as many special holders of charisma. Rather frequently the
chieftain of the hunt and of war stands beside the chieftain of peace, who
has essentially economic functions. In contrast to the latter, the chieftain
of war acquires his charisma by proving his heroism to a voluntary fol-
lowing in successful raids leading to victory and booty. Even the royal
Assyrian inscriptions enumerate booties of the hunt and cedars from
Lebanon — dragged along for building purposes — alongside figures on the
slain enemies and the size of the walls of conquered cities, which are
covered with skins peeled off the enemies.
The charismatic position j[a_mong primjtives)_ isjhus acquired^witJiDUt
regard to position in the sibs or domestic communities and without any
ruleT^hals^everV This duahsm of charisma and everyday routine is very
frequently found among the American Indians, for instance, among the
Confederacy of the Iroquois, as well as in Africa and elsewhere.
Where war and the big game hunt are absent^, the charismatic chieftain
— the 'war lord' as we wish to call him, in contrast to the chieftain of
peace — is absent as well. In peacetime, especially if elemental calamities.
252 POWER
particularly drought and diseases, are frequent, a charismatic sorcerer
may have an essentially similar power in his hands. He is a priestly lord.
The charisma of the war lord may or may not be unstable in nature
according to whether or not he proves himself and whether or not there
is any need for a war lord. He becomes a permanent figure when war-
fare becomes a chronic state of affairs. It is a mere terminological question
whether one wishes to let kingship, and with it the state, begin only
when strangers are affiliated with and integrated into the community as
subjects. For our purposes it will be expedient to continue delimiting the
term 'state' far more narrowly.
f The existence of the war lord as a regular figure certainly does not
/>/^ depend upon a tribal rule over subjects of other tribes or upon individual
'"" slaves. His existence depends solely upon a chronic state of war and upon
a comprehensive organization set for warfare. On the other hand, the
development of kingship into a regular royal administration does emerge
only at the stage when a following of royal professional warriors rules
over the working or paying masses; at least, that is often the case. The
forceful subjection of strange tribes, however, is not an absolutely indis-
pensable link in this development. Internal class stratification may bring
about the very same social differentiation: the charismatic following of
warriors develops into a ruling caste. But in every case, princely power
and those groups having interests vested in it — that is, the war lord's
following — strive for legitimacy as soon as the rule has become stable.
They crave for a characteristic which would define the charismatically
qualified ruler.^
JC. Ine M^eanin^ ol Discipli
iscipiine
t
It is the fate of charisma, whenever it comes into the permanent institu-
tions of a community, to give way to powers o£ tradition or of rational
sociaHzation. This waning 'of charisma generally indicates the dimin-
ishing importance of individual action. And of all those powers that
lessen the importance of individual action, the most irresistible is rational
discipline. '
The force of discipline not only eradicates personal charisma but also
stratification by status groups; at least one of its results is the rational
transformation of status stratification.
The content of discipline is nothing but the consistently rationalized,
methodically trained and exact execution of the received order, in
which all personal criticism is unconditionally suspended and the actor
is unswervingly and exclusively set for carrying out the command. In
addition, this conduct under orders is uniform. Its quality as the com-
munal action af a mass organization conditions the specific effects of such
uniformity. Those who obey are not necessarily a simultaneously obedient
or an especially large mass, nor are they necessarily united in a specific
locality. What is decisive for discipline is that the obedience of a plurality
of men is rationally uniform.
Discipline as such is certainly not hostile to charisma or to status group
honor. On the contrary, status groups that are attempting to rule over
large territories or large organizations — the Venetian aristocratic coun-
selors, the Spartans, the Jesuits in Paraguay, or a modern officer corps
with a prince at its head — can maintain their alertness and their superior-
ity over their subjects only by means of a very strict discipline. This dis-
cipline is enforced within their own group, for the blind obedience of
subjects can be secured only by training them exclusively for submission
under the disciplinary code. The cultivation of a stereotyped prestige and
style of life of a status group, only for reasons of discipline, will have a
'Legitimacy,' Wirtschajt und Gesellschaft, part in, chap. 5, pp. 642-9.
253
254 POWER
Strongly conscious and rationally intended character. This factor effects
all culture in any way influenced by these status communities; we shall
not discuss these effects here. A charismatic hero may make use of dis-
cipline in the same way; indeed, he must do so if he wishes to expand
his sphere of domination. Thus Napoleon created a strict disciplinary
organization for France, which is still effective today.
Discipline in general, like its most rational offspring, bureaucracy, is
impersonal. Unfailingly neutral, it places itself at the disposal of every
power that claims its service and knows how to promote it. This does not
prevent bureaucracy from being intrinsically alien and opposed to char-
isma, as well as to honor, especially of a feudal sort. The berserk with
maniac seizures of frenzy and the feudal knight who measures swords
with an equal adversary in order to gain personal honor are equally alien
to discipline. The berserk is alien to it because hi'' ^rUQV '" Irratinnal;
the knight Kpransp Klf. ■cnhjprfrivp -atUtuAo Inrlci m.'ittpr-rif-fartnpss. In
place of indiyidii?^] hern-ecstasy_Qr piety. Qf,spirited enthusiasm or devo-
tion to a leader as a persojL.^f the cujt of 'honor,' or the exercise of
personal ability asan^rt'— discipline-snbstiiutes habituation to routinized
skill. In so far as discipline appeals to firm motives of an 'ethical' char-
acter, it presupposes a 'sense of duty' and 'conscientiousness.' ('Men of
Conscience' versus 'Men of Honor,' in Cromwell's terms.)
The masses are uniformly conditioned and trained for discipline in
order that their optimum of physical and psychic power in attack may
be rationally calculated. Enthusiasm and unreserved devotion may, of
course, have a place in discipline; every modern conduct of war weighs,
frequently above everything else, precisely the 'moral' elements of a
troop's endurance. Military leadership uses emotional means of all sorts
— just as the most sophisticated techniques of religious discipline, the
exercitia spiritualia of Ignatius Loyola, do in their way. In combat, mili-
tary leadership seeks to influence followers through 'inspiration' and,
even more, to train them in 'emphatic understanding' of the leader's will.
The sociologically decisive points, however, are, first, that everything, and
especially these 'imponderable' and irrational emotional factors, are ration-
ally calculated — in principle, at least, in the same manner as one calculates
the yields of coal and iron deposits. Secondly, devotion, in its purpose-
fulness and according to its normal content, is of an objective character. It
is devotion to a common 'cause,' to a rationally intended 'success'; it does
not mean devotion to a person as such — however 'personally' tinged it
may be in the concrete instance of a fascinating leader.
THE MEANING OF DISCIPLINE 255
The case is diflferent only when the prerogatives of a slaveholder create
a situation of discipline— on a plantation or in a slave army of the ancient
Orient, on galleys manned by slaves or among prisoners in Antiquity and
the Middle Ages. Indeed, the individual cannot escape from such a
mechanized organization, for routinized training puts him in his place
and compels him to 'travel along.' Those w^ho are enlisted in the ranks
are forcibly integrated into the whole. This integration is a strong ele-
ment in the efficacy of all discipline, and especially in every war con-
ducted in a disciplined fashion. It is the only efficacious element and— as
caput mortuum — it always remains after the 'ethical' qualities of duty
and conscientiousness have failed.
I : The Origins of Discipline in War
The conflict between discipline and individual charisma has been full
of vicissitudes. It has its classic seat in the development of the structure
of warfare, in which sphere the conflict is, of course, to some extent deter-
mined by the technique of warfare. The kind of weapons — pike, sword,
bow — are not necessarily decisive; for all of them allow disciplined as well
as individual combat. At the beginning of the known history of the Near
East and of the Occident, however, the importation of the horse and prob-
ably, to some uncertain degree, the beginning of the predominance of
iron for tools have played parts which have been epoch-making in every
way.
The horse brought the war chariot and with it the hero driving into
combat and possibly fighting from his chariot. The hero has been dom-
inant in the warfare of the Oriental, Indian, and ancient Chinese kings,
as well as throughout Occidental societies, including the Celtic, In Ireland
'hero combat' prevailed until late times. Horseback riding came after the
war chariot, but persisted longer. From such horseback riding the 'knight'
emerged — the Persian, as well as the Thessalian, Athenian, Roman, Celtic,
and Germanic. The footman, who certainly played some part earlier in
the development of discipline, receded in importance for quite some time.
The substitution of iron side-arms for bronze javelins was probably
among the factors that again pushed development in the opposite direc-
tion, toward discipline. Yet, just as in the Middle Ages gun powder can
scarcely be said to have brought about the transition from undisciplined
to disciplined fighting, so iron, as such, did not bring about the change —
for long-range and knightly weapons were made of iron.
256 ^ POWER
'It was the discipline of the Hellenic and Roman Hoplites^ which
brought about the change. Even Homer, as an oft-quoted passage indi-
cates, knew of the beginnings of discipline with its prohibition of fighting
out of line. For Rome, the important turning-point is symbolized by the
legend of the execution of the consul's son, who, in accordance with the
ancient fashion of heroes, had slain the opposing war lord in individual
combat. At first, the well-trained army of the Spartan professional soldier,
the holy Lochos " of the Boeotians, the well-trained jam^a-equipped ^
phalanx of the Macedonians, and then the tactic of the highly trained,
more mobile maniple * of the Romans, gained supremacy over the Persian
knight, the militias of the Hellenic and Italic citizenry, and the people's
armies of the Barbarians. In the early period of the Hellenic Hophtes,
incipient attempts were made to exclude long range ^veapons by 'inter-
national law' as unchivalrous, just as during the Middle Ages there were
attempts to forbid the cross-bow.
The kind of weapon has been the result and not the cause of discipline.
Exclusive use of the infantry tactic of close combat during antiquity
brought about the decay of cavalry, and in Rome the 'census of knights'
became practically equivalent to exemption from military service.
At the close of the Middle Ages it was the massed force of the Swiss,
with its parallel and ensuing developments, which first broke the monop-
oly of knighthood to wage war. And even then, the Swiss still allowed
the Halberdiers ^ to break forth from the main force for hero combat,
after the main force had advanced in closed formation — the pike-men
occupying the outside positions. At first these massed forces of the Swiss
only succeeded in dispersing the knights. And in the battles of the six-
teenth and seventeenth centuries, cavalry, as such, increasingly disci-
plined, still played a completely decisive role. Without cavalry it was still
impossible to wage offensive wars and actually to overpower the enemy,
as the course of the English Civil War demonstrated.
It was discipline and not gun powder which initiated the transforma-
tion. The Dutch army under Maurice of the House of Orange was one
of the first modern disciplined armies. It was shorn of all status privi-
leges; and thus, for example, the previously effective refusal of the mer-
cenaries to do rampart work {opera servitid) became ineffective. Crom-
well's victories — despite the fierce bravery of the Cavaliers — were due to
sober and rational Puritan discipline. His 'Ironsides' — the 'men of con-
science'— trotted forward in firmly closed formation, at the same time
calmly firing, and then, thrusting, brought about a successful attack. The
THE MEANING OF DISCIPLINE 257
major contrast lies in the fact that after the attack they remained in
closed formation or immediately re-aligned themselves. It was this dis-
ciplined cavalry attack which was technically superior to the Cavaliers'
ardor. For it was the habit of the Cavaliers to gallop enthusiastically into
the attack and then, without discipline, to disperse, either to plunder the
camp of the enemy or prematurely and individually to pursue single
opponents in order to capture them for ransom. All successes were for-
feited by such habits, as was typically and often the case in Antiquity
and the Middle Ages (for example, at TagUacozzo). Gun powder and
all the war techniques associated with it became significant only with the
existence of discipline — and to the full extent only with the use of war
machinery, which presupposes discipline.
The economic bases upon which army organizations have been
founded are not the only agent determining the development of discipline,
yet they have been of considerable importance. -The discipline of well-
trained armies and the major or minor role they have played in warfare
reacted still more, and with more lasting effects, upon the political and
social order. This influence, however, has been ambiguous. Discipline, as
the basis of warfare, gave birth to pariarchal kingship among the Zulus,
where the monarch is constitutionally limited by the power of the army
leaders (like the Spartan Ephors) .^ Similarly, discipline gave birth to the
Hellenic polls with its gymnasiums.
When infantry drill is perfected to the point of virtuosity (Sparta), ,
the polls has an inevitably 'aristocratic' structure. When cities are based
upon naval discipHne, they have 'democratic' structures (Athens), Dis-
cipline gave rise to Swiss 'democracy,' which is quite different in nature.
It involved a dominance (in Hellenic terms) over metics as well as .
territorial helots, during the time when Swiss mercenaries enlisted in \
foreign armies. The rule of the Roman particiate, of the Egyptian,
Assyrian, and finally of the modern European bureaucratic state organi-
zations— all have their origin in discipline.
War disciphne may go hand in hand with totally different economic
conditions, as these examples show. However, discipline has always
affected the structure of the state, the economy, and possibly the family.
For in the past a fully disciplined army has necessarily been a professional
army, and therefore the basic problem has always been how to provide
for the sustenance of the warriors.
The primeval way of creating trained troops — ever ready to strike, and
allowing themselves to be disciplined — was warrior communism , which
258 POWER
we have already mentioned. It may take the form of the bachelor house
as a kind of barracks or casino of the professional warriors; in this form
it is spread over the largest part of the earth. Or, it may follow the pat-
tern of the communist community of the Ligurian pirates, or of the
Spartan syssitia organized according to the 'picnic' principle; or it may
follow Caliph Omar's organization, or the religious knight orders of the
Middle Ages. The warrior community may constitute, as we have noticed
above, either a completely autonomous society closed against the outside,
or, as is the rule, it may be incorporated into a political association whose
territory is fixed by boundaries. As a part of such a corporate group, the
warrior community may decisively determine its order. Thus, the re-
cruitment of the warrior community is linked to the order of the cor-
porate group. But this linkage is largely relative. Even the Spartans, for
example, did not insist upon a strict 'purity of blood.' Military education
was decisive for membership in its warrior community.
Under warrior communism, the existence of the warrior is the perfect
counterpart to the existence of the monk, ; whose garrisoned and com-
munist life in the monastery also serves the purpose of disciplining him
in the service of his master in the hereafter (and possibly also resulting
in service to a this-worldly master). The dissociation from the family
and from all private economic interests also occurs outside the celibate
knight orders, which were created in direct analogy to the monk orders.
When the institution of the bachelor house is fully developed, familial
relations are often completely excluded. The inmates of the house pur-
chase or capture girls, or they claim that the girls of the subject com-
munity be at their disposal so long as they have not been sold in mar-
riage. The children of the Ariloi — the ruling estate in Melanesia — ^are
killed. Men can join enduring sexual communities with a separate
economy only after having completed their 'service' in the bachelor
house — often only at an advanced age. Stratification according to age
groups, which with some peoples is also important for the regulation of
sexual relationship; the alleged survivals from primitive 'endogenous
sexual promiscuity'; the alleged survivals of a supposedly 'primeval right'
of all comrades to all girls not yet appropriated by an individual; as well
as 'marriage by capture' — allegedly the earliest form of marriage; and,
above all, the 'matriarchate' — all of these might be in most cases survivals
of such military organizations as we are discussing. These military organ-
izations split the life of the warrior from the household and family, and.
THE MEANING OF DISCIPLINE 259
under conditions of chronic warfare, such organizations have been widely
diffused.
Almost everywhere the communistic warrior community may be the
caput mortuum of the followers of charismatic war lords. Such a follow-
ing has usually been societahzed into a chronic institution and, once
existing in peacetime, has led to the decline of warrior chieftainship.
Yet under favorable conditions, the warrior chief may well rise to abso-
lute lordship over the disciplined warrior formations. Accordingly, the
oi}{os, as the basis of a military structure, offers an extreme contrast to
this communism of warriors who live on accumulated stores, as well as
contributions of the women, of those unfit to bear arms, and possibly of
serfs. The patrimonial army is sustained and equipped from the stores
of a commanding overlord. It was known especially in Egypt, but its
fragments are widely dispersed in military organizations of different
natures, and they form the bases of princely despotisms.
The reverse phenomenon, the emancipation of the warrior community
from the unlimited power of the overlord, as evidenced in Sparta through
the institution of the Ephors, has proceeded only so far as the interest
in discipline has permitted. In the polis, therefore, the weakening of the
king's power — which meant the weakening of discipline — prevailed only
in peace and in the homeland {domi in contrast to militiae, according
to the technical terms of Roman administrative law) . The Spartan king's
prerogatives approached the zero point only in peacetime. In the interests
of discipline, the king was omnipotent in the field.
An all-around weakening of discipline usually accompanies any kind
of decentralized military establishment — whether it is of prebendal or of
feudal type. This weakening of discipline may vary greatly in degree.
The well-trained Spartan army, the S'/drJQOi ^ of the other Hellenic and
Macedonian and of several Oriental military establishments, the Turkish
quasi-prebendal fiefs, and finally the feudal fiefs of the Japanese and
Occidental Middle Ages — all of these were phases of economic decen-
tralization, usually going hand in hand with the weakening of discipline
and the rising importance of individual heroism.
From the disciplinary aspect, just as from the economic, the feudal
lord and vassal represents an extreme contrast to the patrimonial or j
bureaucratic soldier. And the disciplinary aspect is a consequence of the ;
economic aspect. The feudal vassal and lord not only cares for his own
equipment and provisions, directs his own baggage-train, but he sum-
mons and leads sub-vassals who, in turn, also equip themselves.
26o POWER
Discipline has grown on the basis of an increased concentration of the
means of warfare in the hands of the war lord. This has been achieved
by having a condottiere recruit mercenary armies, in part or wholly, in
the manner of a private capitalist. Such an arrangement was dominant
in the late Middle Ages and the beginning of the modern era. It was
followed by the raising and equipping of standing armies by means of
political authority and a collective economy. We shall not describe here
in detail the increasing rationalization of procurement for the armies. It
began with Maurice of the House of Orange, proceeded to Wallenstein,
Gustav Adolf, Cromwell, the armies of the French, of Frederick the
Great, and of Maria Theresa; it passed through a transition from the
professional army to the people's army of the French Revolution, and
from the disciplining of the people's army by Napoleon into a partly pro-
fessional army. Finally universal conscription was introduced during
the nineteenth century. The whole development meant, in effect, the
clearly increasing importance of discipline and, just as clearly, the con-
sistent execution of the economic process through which a public and
collective economy was substituted for private capitalism as the basis for
military organization.
Whether the exclusive dominance of universal conscription will be
the last word in the age of machine warfare remains to be seen. The
shooting records of the British navy, for instance, seem to be affected by
ensembling gun crews of professional soldiers, which allows for their
continuation as a team through the years. The belief in the technical
superiority of the professional soldier for certain categories of troops is
almost sure to gain in influence, especially if the process of shortening
the term of service — stagnating in Europe at the moment — should con-
tinue. In several officers' circles, this view is already esoterically held.
The introduction of a three-year period of compulsory service by the
French army (1913) was motivated here and there by the slogan of
'professional army' — a somewhat inappropriate slogan, since all diflferen-
tiation of the troops into categories was absent. These still ambiguous
possibilities, and also their possible political consequences, are not to be
discussed here. In any case, none of them will alter the exclusive im-
r'portance of mass discipline. What has concerned us here has been ^ to
show that the separation of the \yarrior from the means of warf are,^ ^and
the concentration of the means of warfare in the hands of the war lord
f
have everywhere been one of the typical bases of mass discipline. And
I this has been the case whether the process of separation and of concen-
THE MEANING OF DISCIPLINE 261
tration was executed in the form of oikos, capitalist enterprise, or bureau-
cratic organizatiorn "^ ' --— ■"""*" "~
2: The Discipline of Large-Scale Economic Organizations
The discipline of the army gives birth to all discipline. The large-scale
economic organization is the second great agency which trains men for
discipline. No direct historical and transitional organizations link the
Pharaonic workshops and construction work (however httle detail about
their organization is known) with the Carthaginian Roman plantation,
the mines of the late Middle Ages, the slave plantation of colonial
economies, and finally the modern factory. However, all of these have
in common the one element of discipline.
The slaves of the ancient plantations slept in barracks, living without
family and without property. Only the managers — especially the villicus —
had individual domiciles, somewhat comparable to the lieutenant's domi-
cile or the residence of a manager of a modern, large-scale agricultural
enterprise. The villicus alone usually had quasi-property {peculium, i.e.
originally property in cattle) and quasi-marriage {contiibernium) . In
the morning the work-slaves lined up in 'squads' (in decuriae) and were
led to work by overseers (moniiores) ; their personal equipment (to use
a barrack term) was stored away and handed out according to need.
And hospitals and prison cells were not absent. The discipline of the
manor of the Middle Ages and the modern era was considerably less
strict because it was traditionally stereotyped, and therefore it somewhat
limited the lord's power.
No special proof is necessary to show that military discipline is the
ideal model for the modern capitalist factory, as it was for the ancient
plantation. In contrast to the plantation, organizational discipline in the
factory is founded upon a completely rational basis. With the help of
appropriate methods of measurement, the optimum profitability of the
individual worker is calculated like that of any material means of pro-
duction. On the basis of this calculation, the American system of 'scien-
tific management' enjoys the greatest triumphs in the rational condition-
ing and training of work performances. The final consequences are
drawn from the mechanization and discipline of the plant, and the
psycho-physical apparatus of man is completely adjusted to the demands
of the outer world, the tools, the machines — in short, to an individual
'function.' The individual is shorn of his natural rhythm as determined
262 POWER
by the structure of his organism; his psycho-physical apparatus is atuned
to a new rhythm through a methodical specialization o£ separately func-
tioning muscles, and an optimal economy of forces is established cor-
responding to the conditions of work. This whole process of rationaliza-
i tion, in the factory as elsewhere, and especially in the bureaucratic state
I machine, parallels the centralization of the material implements of
organization in the discretionary power of the overlord.
! The ever-widening grasp of discipline irresistibly proceeds with the
' rationalization of the supply of economic and political demands. This
universal phenomenon increasingly restricts the importance of charisma
l and of individually differentiated conduct.
3: Discipline and Charisma
Charisma, as a creative power, recedes in the face of domination,
I which hardens into lasting institutions, and becomes efficacious only in
J short-lived mass emotions of incalculable effects, as on elections and
j similar occasions. Nevertheless charisma remains a highly important
■ element of the social structure, although of course in a greatly changed
sense.
We must now return to the economic factors, already mentioned
above, which predominantly determine the routinization of charisma:
'• the need of social strata, privileged through existing political, social, and
\/ economic orders, to have their social and economic positions 'legitimized.'
They wish to see their positions transformed from purelyfactual power
relations into a cosmos of acquired rights, and to know that they are
thus sanctified. These interests comprise by far the strongest motive for
the conservation of charismatic elements of an objectified nature within
the structure of domination. Genuine charisma is absolutely opposed to
this objectified fornjc^lt does not appeal to an enacted or traditional order,
nor does it base its claims upon acquired rights. Genuine charisma rests
upon the legitimation of personal heroism or personal revelation. Yet
precisely this quality of charisma as an extraordinary, supernatural, divine
power transforms it, after its routinization, into a suitable source for the
legitimate acquisition of sovereign power by the successors of the charis-
matic hero. Routinized charisma thus continues to work in favor of all
those whose power and possession is guaranteed by that sovereign power,
and who thus depend upon the continued existence of such power.
The forms in which a ruler's charismatic legitimation may express
THE MEANING OF DISCIPLINE 263
itself vary according to the relation of the original charismatic power-
holder with the supernatural powers. If the ruler's legitimation cannot
be determined, according to unambiguous rules, through hereditary
charisma, he is in need of legitimation through some other charismatic
power. Normally, this can only be hierocratic power. This holds expressly
for the sovereign who represents a divine incarnation, and who thus
possesses the highest 'personal charisma.' Unless it is supported and
proved by personal deeds, his claim of charisma requires the acknowl-
edgment of professional experts in divinity. Incarnated monarchs are
indeed exposed to-the peculiar process of interment by close court officials
and priests, who are materially and ideally interested in legitimacy. This
seclusion may proceed to a permanent palace arrest and even to killing
upon maturity, lest the god have occasion to compromise divinity or to
free himself from tutelage* Yet generally, according to the genuine view
as well as in practice, the weight of responsibility which the charismatic
ruler must carry before his subjects works very definitely in the direction
of the need for his tutelage.
It is because of their high charismatic qualifications that such rulers
as the Oriental Caliph, Sultan, and Shah urgently need, even nowadays
(1913), a single personality to assume responsibility for governmental
actions, especially for failures and unpopular actions. This is the basis
for the traditional and specific position of the 'Grand Vizier' in all those
realms. The attempt to abolish and replace the office of the Grand Vizier
by bureaucratic departments under ministers with the Shah's personal
chairmanship failed in Persia during the last generation. This change
would have placed the Shah in the role of a leader of the administration,
personally responsible for all its abuses and for all the sufferings of the
people. This role not only would have continuously jeopardized him,
but would have shaken the belief in his very 'charismatic' legitimacy.
The office of Grand Vizier with its responsibilities had to be restored in
order to protect the Shah and his charisma.
The Grand Vizier is the Oriental counterpart of the position of the
responsible prime minister of the Occident, especially in parliamentary
states. The formula, le roi regne mats il ne gouverne pas, and the theory
that, in the interest of the dignity of his position, the king must not
'figure without ministerial decorations,' or, that he must abstain entirely
from intervening in the normal administration directed by bureaucratic
experts and specialists, or that he must abstain from administration in
favor of the political party leaders occupying ministerial positions — all
264 POWER
these theories correspond entirely to the enshrinement of the deified,
patrimonial sovereign by the experts in tradition and ceremony: priests,
court officers, and high dignitaries. In all these cases the sociological nature
of charisma plays just as great a part as that of court officials or party
leaders and their foUowings. Despite his lack of parliamentary power,
the constitutional monarch is preserved, and above all, his mere existence
and his charisma guarantee the legitimacy of the existing social and
property order, since decisions are carried out 'in his name.' Besides, all
those interested in the social order must fear for the belief in 'legality'
lest it be shaken by doubts of its legitimacy.
A president elected according to fixed rules can formally legitimize
the governmental actions of the respective victorious party as 'lawful,'
just as well as a parliamentary monarch. But the monarch, in addition
to such legitimation, can perform a function which an elected president
can not fulfil: a parliamentary monarch formally delimits the politicians'
quest for power, because the highest position in the state is occupied
once and for all. From a political point of view this essentially negative
function, associated with the mere existence of a king enthroned accord-
ing to fixed rules, is of the greatest practical importance. Formulated
positively it means, for the archetype of the species, that the king cannot
gain an actual share in political power by prerogative (kingdom of pre-
rogative). He can share power only by virtue of outstanding personal
ability or social influence (kingdom of influence). Yet he is in position to
exert this influence in spite of all parliamentary government, as events
and personaHties of recent times have shown.
'Parliamentary' kingship in England means a selective admission to
actual power for that monarch who qualifies as a statesman. But a mis-
step at home or in foreign affairs, or the raising of pretensions that do
not correspond with his personal abilities and prestige, may cost him
his crown. Thus English parliamentary kingship is formed in a more
genuinely charismatic fashion than kingships on the Continent. On the
Continent, mere birth-right equally endows the fool and the political
genius with the pretensions of a sovereign.
Part III
RELIGION
X.i. Ine oocial xsycnology ol tne VVorlo
Xveligions
By 'world religions,' we understand the five religions or religiously deter-
mined systems of life-regulation which have known how to gather
multitudes of confessors around them. The term is used here in a com-
pletely value-neutral sense. The Confucian, Hinduist, Buddhist, Chris-
tian, and Islamist religious ethics all belong to the category of world
religion. A sixth religion, Judaism, will also be dealt with. It is included
because it contains historical preconditions decisive for understanding
Christianity and Islamism, and because of its historic and autonomous
significance for the development of the modern economic ethic of the
Occident — a significance, partly real and partly alleged, which has been
discussed several times recently. References to other religions will be
made only when they are indispensable for historical connections.^
What is meant by the 'economic ethic' of a religion will become in-
creasingly clear during the course of our presentation. This term does
not bring into focus the ethical theories of theological compendia; for
however important such compendia may be under certain circumstances,
they merely serve as tools of knowledge. The term 'economic ethic'
points tojhe practical impulses for action which are founded in the
nsycho^ical and pragmatic contexts of religions. The following presen-
tation may be sketchy, but it will make obvious how complicated the
structures and how many-sided the conditions of a concrete economic
ethic usually are. Furthermore, it will show that externally similar forms
of economic organization may agree with very different economic ethics
'Die Wirtschaftsethik der Weltreligionen,' Gesammelte Attjsaetze zur Religionssoziologie
(Tubingen, 1922-3), vol. i, pp. 237-68. This is a translation o£ the Introduction to a
series of studies which Weber published as articles in the Archiv ftir Sozialforschting under
the title 'Die Wirtschaftsethik der Weltreligionen' (The Economic Ethic of the World
Religions). The Introduction and the first parts on Confucianism and Taoism were written
in 1 91 3. They were not published until September 1915, in the 41st volume of the
Archiv.
267
268 RELIGION
and, according to the unique character of their economic ethics, how
such forms of economic organization may produce very different his-
torical results. An economic ethic is not a simple 'function' of a form
of economic organization; and just as little does the reverse hold, namely,
that economic ethics unambiguously stamp the form of the economic
/, organization.
w/ Nq economic ethic has ever been determined solely by religion. In the
)^ face of man's attitudes to wards the~w6rld — as determined by religious or
»p other (in our sense) 'inner' factors — an economic ethic has, of course, a
high measure of autonomy. Given factors of economic geography and
histor,y_determine this measure of autonomy~in the highest degree. The
V'eligious determination of life-conduct, however, is also one — note this —
only one, of the determinants of the economic ethic^Of course, the reli-
giously determined way of life is itself profoundly influenced by economic
and political factors operating within given geographical, political, social,
and national boundaries. We should lose ourselves in these discussions
if we tried to demonstrate these dependencies in all their singularities.
Here we can only attempt to peel oflF the directive elements in the life-
conduct of those social strata which have most strongly influenced the
practical ethic of their respective religions. These elements have stamped
the most characteristic features upon practical ethics, the features that
distinguish one ethic from others; and, at the same time, they have been
important for the respective economic ethics.
By no means must we focus upon only one stratum. Those strata which
are decisive in stamping the characteristic features of an economic ethic
may change in the course of history. And the influence of a single
stratum is never an exclusive one. Nevertheless, as a rule one may deter-
mine the strata whose styles of life have been at least predominantly
decisive for certain religions. Here are some examples, if one may antici-
pate:
Confucianism was the status ethic of prebendaries, of men with literary
educations who were characterized by a secular rationalism. If one did
not belong to this cultured stratum he did not count. The religious (or
if one wishes, irreligious) status ethic of this stratum has determined
the Chinese way of life far beyond the stratum itself.
Earlier Hinduism was borne by a hereditary caste of cultured literati,
who, being remote from any office, functioned as a kind of ritualist and
spiritual advisers for individuals and communities. They formed a stable
center for the orientation of the status stratification, and they placed
• THE SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY OF THE WORLD RELIGIONS 269
their stamp upon ihe_social order. Only Brahmans, educated in the Veda,
formed, as bearers of tradition, the fully recognized religious status group.
An^ only later a non-Brahman status group of ascetics emerged by the
side of the Brahmans and competed with them. Still later, during the
Indian Middle Ages, Hinduism entered the plain. It represented the
ardent " sacramental religiosity of the savior, and was borne by the lower
strata with their plebeian mystagogues.
Buddhism was propagated by strictly contemplative, mendicant monks,
who] rejected the world and, having no homes, migrated. Only these
were full members of the religious community; all others remained
religious laymen of inferior value: objects, not subjects, of religiosity.
During its first period, Islamism was a religion of world-conquering
warriors, a knight order of disciplined crusaders. They lacked only the
sexual asceticism of their Christian copies of the age of the Crusades.
But during the Islamic Middle Ages, contemplative and mystical Sufism ^
attained at least an equal standing under the leadership of plebeian tech-
nicians of orgiastics. The bfotherhoods of the petty bourgeoisie grew out
of Sufism in a manner similar to the Christian Tertiarians, except they
were far more universally developed.
Since the Exile, Judaism has been the religion of a civic 'pariah people.'
We shall in time become acquainted with the precise meaning of the
term. During the Middle Ages Judaism fell under the leadership of a
stratum of intellectuals who were trained in literature and ritual, a
peculiarity of Judaism. This stratum has represented an increasingly
quasi-proletarian and rationalist petty-bourgeois intelligentsia.
Christianity, finally, began its course as a doctrine of itinerant artisan
journeymen. During all periods of its mighty external and internal de-
velopment it has been a quite specifically urban, and above all a civic,
j-digio-ci. This was true during Antiquity, during the Middle Ages, and
in Puritanism. The city of the Occident, unique among all other cities
of- the world — and citizenship, in the sense in which it has emerged only
in the Occident — has been the major theatre for Christianity. This holds
for the pneumatic piety of the ancient religious community, for the
mendicant monk orders of the high Middle Ages, and for the [Protest-
ant] sects of the reformation up to pietism and methodism.
It is not our thesis that the specific nature of a religion is a simple
'function' of the social situation of the stratum which appears as its
characteristic bearer, or that it represents the stratum's 'ideology,' or that
270 RELIGION
it is a 'reflection' of a stratum's material or ideal interest-situation. On
the contrary, a more basic misunderstanding of the standpoint of these
discussions would hardly be possible.
However incisive the social influences, economically and politically
, determined, may have been upon a religious ethic in a particular case,
it "deceives its stamp primarily from religious sources, and, first of all,
from the content of its annunciation and its promise. Frequently the very
next generation reinterprets these annunciations and promises in a funda-
mental fashion. Such reinterpretations adjust the revelations to the needs
of the religious community. If this occurs, then it is at least usual that
religious doctrines are adjusted to religious needs J^ Other spheres of in-
terest could have only a secondary influence; often, however, such influ-
ence is very obvious and sometimes it is decisive.
For every religion we shall find that a change in the socially decisive
strata Has usually been of profound importance. On the other hand, the
type of a religion, once stamped, has usually exerted a rather far-reaching
influence upon the life-conduct of very heterogeneous strata. In various
ways people have sought to interpret the connection between religious
ethics and interest-situations in such a way that the former appear as
mere 'functions' of the latter. Such interpretation occurs in so-called his-
torical materialism — which we shall not here discuss — as well as in a
purely psychological sense.
A quite general and abstract class-determination of religious ethics
might be deduced from the theory of 'resentment,' known since Friedrich
Nietzsche's brilliant essay and since then spiritedly treated by psycholo-
gists. As is known, this theory regards the moral glorification of mercy
and brotherliness as a 'slave revolt in morals' among those who are dis-
advantaged, either in their natural endowments or in their opportunities
as determined by life-fate. The ethic of 'duty' is thus considered a product
of 'repressed' sentiments for vengeance on the part of banausic men who
'displace' their sentiments because they are powerless, and condemned to
work and to money-making. They resent the way of life of the lordly
stratum who live free of duties. A very simple solution of the most
important problems in the typology of religious ethics would obviously
result if this were the case. However fortunate and fruitful the dis-
closure of the psychological significance of resentment as such has been,
great caution is necessary in estimating its bearing for social ethics.
Later we shall have to discuss the motives that have determined the
different forms of ethical 'rationalization' of life conduct, per se. In the
THE SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY OF THE WORLD RELIGIONS T]l
main, these have had HOthmg Whatsoever to do with resentment. But
that the evaluation »f suffering in reHgious ethics has been subject to a
typical change is beyOTwijdQiibtrlf properly understood, this change car-
ries a certain justification for the theory first worked out by Nietzsche.
The primeval attitude towards suffering has been thrown into relief
most drastically during the religious festivities of the community, espe-
cially in the treatment of those haunted by disease or other cases of ob-
stinate misfortune. Men, permanently suffering, mourning, diseased, or
otherwise unfortunate, were, according to the nature of their suffering,
believed either to be possessed by a demon or burdened with the wrath
of a god whom they had insulted. To tolerate such men in the midst of
the cultic community could result in disadvantages for it. In any case,
they were not allowed to participate in cultic feasts and sacrifices, for the
gods did not enjoy the sight of them and could be incited to wrath by
it. The sacrificial feasts were occasions for rejoicing — even in Jerusalem
during times of siege.
In treating suffering as a symptom of odiousness in the eyes of the
gods and as a sign of secret guilt, religion has psychologically met a
very_general need.. The fortunate is seldom satisfied with the fact of be-
ing fortunate. Beyond this, he needs to know that he has a right to his
good fortune. He wants to be convinced that he 'deserves' it, and above
all, that he deserves it in comparison with others. He wishes to be al-
lowed the belief that the less fortunate also merely experience his due.
Good fortune thus wants to be 'legitimate' fortune.
If the general term 'fortune' covers all the 'good' of honor, power,
possession, and pleasure, it is the most general formula for the service
of legitimation, which religion has had to accomplish for the external
and the inner interests of all ruling men, the propertied, the victorious,
and the healthy. In short, religion provides the theodicy of good fortune
for those who are fortunate. This theodicy is anchored in highly robust
Cpharisaical') needs of man and is therefore easily understood, even if
sufficient attention is often not paid to its effects.
In contrast, the way in which this negative evaluation of suffering has
led to its religious glorification is more complicated. Numerous forms
of chastisement and of abstinences from normal diet and sleep, as well
as from sexual intercourse, awaken, or at least facilitate, the charisma
of ecstatic, visionary, hysterical, in short, of all extraordinary states that
are evaluated as 'holy.' Their production therefore forms the object of
magical asceticism. The prestige of these chastisements has resulted from
272 RELIGION
the notion that certain kinds of suffering and abnormal states provoked
'through chastisement are avenues to the attainment of superhuman,
that is magical, powers. The ancient prescriptions of taboo and absti-
nences in the interest of cultic purity, which follow from a beHef in
demons, has worked in the same direction. The development of cults of
'redemption' has been added to these prescriptions, abstinences, and in-
terests. In principle, these cults have occupied an independent and new
position in the face of individual suffering. The primeval cult, and above
all, the cult of the political associations, have left all individual interests
out of consideration. The tribal and local god, the gods of the city and
of the empire, have taken care only of interests that have concerned the
collectivity as a whole. They have been concerned with rain and with
sunshine, with the booty of the hunt and with victory over enemies.
Thus, in the community cult, the collectivity as such turned to its god.
The individual, in order to avoid or remove evils that concerned him-
self— above all, sickness — has not turned to the cult of the community,
but as an individual he has approached the sorcerer as the oldest per-
sonal and 'spiritual adviser.' The prestige of particular magicians, and
of those spirits or divinities in whose names they have performed their
miracles, has brought them patronage, irrespective of local or of tribal
affiliation. Under favorable conditions this has led to the formation of a
religious 'community,' which has been independent of ethnic associations.
Some, though not all, 'mysteries' have taken this course. They have
promised the salvation of individuals qua individuals from sickness,
poverty, and from all sorts of distress and danger. Thus the magician
has transformed himself into the mystagogue; that is, hereditary
dynasties of mystagogues or organizations of trained personnel under a
head determined in accordance with some sort of rules have developed.
This head has either been recognized as the incarnation of a superhuman
being or merely as a prophet, that is, as the mouthpiece and agent of his
god. Collective religious arrangements for individual 'suffering' per se,
and for 'salvation' from it, have originated in this fashion.
The annunciation and the promise of religion have naturally been
addressed to the masses of those who were in need of salvation. They__
and their interests have moved into the center of the professional organi-
zation for the 'cure of the soul,' which, indeed, only therewith originated.
The typical service of magicians and priests becomes the determination
of the factors to be blamed for suffering, that is, the confession of 'sins.'
At first, these sins were offenses against ritual commandments. The
THE SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY OF THE WORLD RELIGIONS 273
magician and priest also give counsel for behavior fit to remove the
suffering. The material and ideal interests of magicians and priests could
thereby actually and increasingly enter the service of specifically plebeian
motives. A further step along this course was signified when, under the
pressure of typical and ever-recurrent distress, the religiosity of a 're-
deemer' evolved. This religiosity presupposed the myth of a savior, hence
(at least relatively) of a rational view of the world. Again, suffering
became the most important topic. The primitive mythology of nature
frequently offered a point of departure for this religiosity. The spirits (^ a _
who governed the coming and going of vegetation and the paths o£ ^--*^ '
celestial bodies important for the seasons of the year became the pre-
ferred carriers of the myths of the suffering, dying, and resurrecting god
to needful men. The resurrected god guaranteed the return of good
fortune in this world or the security of happiness in the world beyond.
Or, a popularized figure from heroic sagas — like Krishna in India — is
embellished with the myths of childhood, love, and struggle; and such
figures became the object of an ardent cult of the savior. Among people
under poHtical pressure, like the Israelites, the title of 'savior' (Moshuach
name) was originally attached to the saviors from political distress, as
transmitted by hero sagas (Gideon, Jephthah). The 'Messianic' promises
were determined by these sagas. With this people, and in this clear-cut
fashion only among them and under other very particular conditions, the
suffering of a people's community, rather than the suffering of an indi-
vidual, became the object of hope for religious salvation. The rule was
that the savior bore an individual and universal character at the same
time that he was ready to guarantee salvation for the individual and
to every individual who would turn to him.
The figure of the savior has been of varying stamp. In the late form
of Zoroastrianism with its numerous abstractions, a purely constructed
figure assumed the role of the mediator and savior in the economy of
salvation. The reverse has also occurred: a historical person, legitimized
through miracles and visionary reappearances, ascends to the rank of
savior. Purely historical factors have been decisive for the realization of
these very different possibilities. Almost always, however, some kind of
theodicy of suffering has originated from the hope for salvation.
The promises of the religions of salvation at first remained tied to
ritualTstj-ather than to ethical preconditions. Thus, for instance, both
the worldly and the other worldly advantages of the Eleusinian mysteries
were tied to ritual purity and to attendance at the Eleusinian mass. When
274 RELIGION
law gained in significance, these special deities played an increasing role,
and the task of protecting the traditional order, of punishing the unjust
and rewarding the righteous, was transferred to them as guardians of
juridical procedure.
Where religious development was decisively influenced by a prophecy,
naturally 'sin' was no longer a mere magical offense. Above all, it was a
f'sigiuii-disb.eliei in the prophet and in his commandments. Sin figured
as the basic cause of all sorts of misfortunes.
The propliet has not regularly been a ^descendant or a representative of
depressed classes. The reverse, as we shall see, has almost always been
the~Tule. Neither has the content of the prophet's doctrine been derived
preponderantly from the intellectual horizon of the depressed classes.
As 3 rule, however, the oppressed, or at least those threatened by distress,
were in need of a redeemer and prophet; the fortunate, the propertied,
the ruling strata were not in such need. Therefore, in the great majority
of cases, a prophetically announced religion of redemption has had its "
permanent locus among the less-favored social strata. Among these, such'
religiosity has either been a substitute for, or a rational supplement to,
'" magic.
Wherever the promises of the prophet or the redeemer have not suf-
ficiently met the needs of the socially less-favored strata, a secondary
salvation religion of the masses has regularly developed beneath the
official doctrine. The rational conception of the world is contained in
germ within the myth of the redeemer. A rational theodicy of misfortune
has, therefore, as a rule, been a development of this conception of the
wpxld. At the same time, this rational view of the world has often fur-
nished suffering as such with a 'plus' sign, which was originally quite
foreign to it.
Suffering, voluntarily created through mortification, changed its mean-
in^^Tth the development of ethical divinities who punish and reward.
Originally, the magical coercion of spirits by the formula of prayer was
increased through mortification as a source of charismatic states. Such
coercion was preserved in mortification by prayer as well as in cultic
prescriptions of abstinence. This has remained the case, even after the
magical formula for coercing spirits became a supplication to be heard
by a deity. Penances were added as a means of cooling the wrath of
deities by repentance, and of avoiding through self-punishment the sanc-
tions that have been incurred. The numerous abstinences were originally
attached to the mourning for the dead (with special clarity in China) in
THE SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY OF THE WORLD RELIGIONS 275
order to turn away their jealousy and wrath. These abstinences were
easily transferred to relations with the appropriate divinities; they made
self-mortification, and finally, unintentional deprivation as such, appear
more pleasing to the gods than the naive enjoyment of the goods of this
earth. Such enjoyment, indeed, made the pleasure-seeking man less acces-
sible to the influence of the prophet or the priest.
The force of all these individual factors was tremendously enhanced
under certain conditions.
Thg-aeed for an ethical interpretation of the 'meaning' of the distri-
bution of fortunes among men increased with the growing rationality
of conceptions of the world. As the religious and ethical reflections upon
the world were increasingly rationalized and primitive, and magical
notions were eliminated, the theodicy of suffering encountered increasing
difficulties. Individually 'undeserved' woe was all too frequent; not 'good'
but 'bad' men succeeded — even when 'good' and 'bad' were measured
by the yardstick of the master stratum and not by that of a 'slave
morality.'
One can explain suffering and injustice by referring to individual sin
committed in a former life (the migration of souls), to the guilt of
ancestors, which is avenged down to the third and fourth generation, or —
the most principled — to the wickedness of all creatures per se. As com-
pensatory promises, one can refer to liopes of the individual for a better
lifein the future in this world (transmigration of souls) or to hopes for
the successors (Messianic realm)^_^r^o a better life in the hereafter
(paradise).
The metaphysical conception of God and of the world, which the
ineradicable demand for a theodicy called forth, could produce only a l^J^^
few systems of ideas on the whole — as we shall see, only three. These /. jL
three_gave rationally satisfactory answers to the questioning for the basis
of the incongruity between destiny and merit: the Indian doctrine of ^
Kharma, Zoroastrian dualism, and the predestination decree of the deus
abscpndidus. These solutions are rationally closed; in pure form,^ they
ar£_iciund only as exceptions.
The rational need for a theodicy of suffering and of dying has had
extremely strong effects. As a matter of fact, this need has molded impor-
tant traits of such religions as Hinduism, Zoroastrism, and Judaism, and,
to a certain extent, Paulinian and later Christianity. Even as late as 1906,
a mere minority among a rather considerable number of proletarians
gave as reasons for their disbelief in Christianity conclusions derived
276 RELIGION
from modern theories of natural sciences. The majority, however, re-
ferred to the 'injustice' of the order of this world — to be sure, essentially
because they believed in a revolutionary compensation in this world.
The theodicy of suffering can be colored by resentment. But the need
of compensation for the insufficiency of one's fate in this world has not,
as a rule, had resentment as a basic and decisive color. Certainly, the
need for vengeance has had a special affinity with the belief that the
unjust are well oil in this world only because hell is reserved for them
later. Eternal bliss is reserved for the pious; occasional sins, which, after
all, the pious also commit, ought therefore to be expiated in this world.
Yet one can readily be convinced that even this way of thinking, which
occasionally appears, is not always determined by resentment, and that
it Ts by no means always the product of socially oppressed strata. We
shall see that there have been only a few examples of religion to which
resentment contributed essential features. Among these examples only one
is a fully developed case. All that can be said is that resentment could be,
and often and everywhere has been, significant as one factor, among
others, in influencing the religiously determined rationalism of socially
disadvantaged strata. It has gained such significance, in highly diverse
and often minute degrees, in accordance with the nature of the promises
held out by different religions.
In any case, it would be quite wrong to attempt to deduce 'asceticism'
in general from these sources. The distrust of wealth and power, which
as a rule exists in genuine religions of salvation, has had its natural basis
primarily in the experience of redeemers, prophets, and priests. They
understood that those strata which were 'satiated' and favored in this
world had only a small urge to be saved, regardless of the kind of salva-
tion offered. Hence, these master strata have been less 'devout' in the
sense of salvation religions. The development of a rational religious ethic
has had positive and primary roots in the inner conditions of those social
strata which were less socially valued.
Strata in solid possession of social honor and power usually tend to
fashion their status-legend in such a way as to claim a special and in-
trinsic quality of their own, usually a quality of blood; their sense of
dignity feeds on their actual or alleged being. The sense of dignity of
socially repressed strata or of strata whose status is negatively (or at least
not positively) valued is nourished most easily on the belief that a special
'mission' is entrusted to them; their worth is guaranteed or constituted
by an ethical imperative, or by their own functional achievement. Their
THE SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY OF THE WORLD RELIGIONS 277
value Is thus moved into something beyond themselves, into a 'task'
placed before them by God. One source of the ideal power of ethical
prophecies among socially disadvantaged strata lies in this fact. Resent- 1
rnent has not been required as a leverage; the rational interest in inaterial i
and ideal compensations as such has been perfectly sufficient. (
There can be no doubt that prophets and priests through intentional
or unintentional propaganda have taken the resentment of the masses
into their service. But this is by no means always the case. This essentially
negative force of resentment, so far as is known, has never been the
source of those essentially metaphysical conceptions which have lent
uniqueness to every salvation religion. Moreover, in general, the nature
of a religious promise has by no means necessarily or even predominantly
been the mere mouthpiece of a class interest, either of an external or
internal nature.
By themselves, the masses, as we shall see, have everywhere remained
engulfed in the massive and archaic growth of magic — unless a prophecy
that holds out specific promises has swept them into a religious move-
ment of an ethical character. For the rest, the specific nature of the great
religious and ethical systems has been determined by social conditions of
a far more particular nature than by the mere contrast of ruHng and ruled
strata.
In order to avoid repetition, some further comments about these rela-
tionships may be stated in advance. For the empirical student, the sacred
values, differing among themselves, are by no means only, nor even
preferably, to be interpreted as 'other-worldly.' This is so quite apart
from the fact that not every religion, nor every world religion, knows of
a 'beyond' as a locus of definite promises. At first the sacred values of
primitive as well as of cultured, prophetic or non-prophetic, religions
were quite solid goods of this world. With the only partial exception of
Christianity and a few other specifically ascetic creeds, they have con-
sisted of health, a long life, and wealth. These were offered by the
promises of the Chinese, Vedic, Zoroastrian, ancient Hebrew, and Islam-
ite religions; and in the same manner by the Phoenician, Egyptian,
Babylonian, and ancient Germanic religions, as well as by the promises
of Hinduism and Buddhism for the devout laymen. Only the religious
virtuoso, the ascetic, the monk, the Sufi, the Dervish "strove^ for sacred"
valueSj-wliich were 'other-worldly' as compared with such solid goods of
this world, as health, wealth, and long Hfe. And these other-worldly
sacred values were by no means only values of the beyond. This was not
278 RELIGION
the case even where it was understood to be so by the participants.
Psychologically considered, man in quest of salvation has been primarily
preoccupied by attitudes of the here and now. The puritan certitudo salutis,
the permanent state of grace that rests in the feeling of 'having proved
oneself,' was psychologically the only concrete object among the sacred
values of this ascetic religion. The Buddhist monk, certain to enter Nir-
vana, seeks the sentiment of a cosmic love; the devout Hindu seeks
either Bhakti (fervent love in the possession of God) or apathetic ecstasy.
The Chlyst with his radjeny, as well as the dancing Dervish, strives for
orgiastic ecstasy. Others seek to be possessed by God and to possess God,
to be a bridegroom of the Virgin Mary, or to be the bride of the Savior.
The Jesuit's cult of the heart of Jesus, quietistic edification, the pietists'
tender love for the child Jesus and its 'running sore,'* the sexual and
semi-sexual orgies at the wooing of Krishna, the sophisticated cultic
dinners of the Vallabhacharis, the gnostic onanist cult activities, the
various forms of the tinio mystica, and the contemplative submersion in
the All-one — ^these states undoubtedly have been sought, first of all, for
the sake of such emotional value as they directly offered the devout. In
this respect, they have in fact been absolutely equal to the religious and
alcoholic intoxication of the Dionysian or the soma cult; to totemic meat-
orgies, the cannibalistic feasts, the ancient and religiously consecrated
use of hashish, opium, and nicotine; and, in general, to all sorts of mag-
ical intoxication. They have been considered specifically consecrated and
divine because of their psychic extraordinariness and because of the
intrinsic value of the respective states conditioned by them. Even the
most primitive orgy has not entirely lacked a meaningful interpretation,
although only the rationalized religions have imputed a metaphysical
meaning into such specifically religious actions, in addition to the direct
appropriation of sacred values. Rationalized religions have thus subli-
mated the orgy into the 'sacrament?~The orgy, however, has had a pure
animist and magical character; it has contained only small or, indeed,
no beginnings of the universalist, cosmic pragmatism of the holy. And
such pragmatism is peculiar to all religious rationalism.
Yet even after such a sublimation of orgy into sacrament has occurred,
the fact remains, oT course, that for the devout the sacred value, first and
above all, has been a psychological state in the here and now. Primarily
this state consists in the emotional attitude fer se, which was directly
called forth by the specifically religious (or magical) act, by nietho3ical
asceticism, or by contemplation. — -^
THE SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY OF THE WORLD RELIGIONS 279
As extraordinary attitudes, religious states can be only transient in
character and in external appearance. Originally this, of course, was
everywhere the case. The only way of distinguishing between 'religious'
and 'profane' states is by referring to the extraordinary character of the
religious states. A special state, attained by religious means, can be striven
for as a 'holy state' which is meant to take possession of the entire man
and of his lasting fate. The transition from a passing to a permanent holy
state has been fluid,
Tljg. t>vo highest conceptions of sublimated religious doctrines of salva-
tion are 'rebirth' and 'redemption.' Rebirth, a primeval magical value, has
meant the acquisition of a new soul by means of an orgiastic act or
through methodically planned asceticism. Man transitorily acquired a
new soul in ecstasy; but by means of magical asceticism, he could seek
to gain it permanently. The youth who wished to enter the community
of warriors as a hero, or to participate in its magical dances or orgies, or
who wished to commune with the divinities in cultic feasts, had to have
a new soul. The heroic and magical asceticism, the initiation rites of
youths, and the sacramental customs of rebirth at important phases of
private and collective life are thus quite ancient. The means used in
these activities varied, as did their ends: that is, the answers to the ques-
tion, 'For what should I be reborn?'
The various religious or magical states that have given their psycho-
logical stamp to religions may be systematized according to very different
points of view. Here we shall not attempt such a systematization. In
connection with what we have said, we merely wish to indicate quite
generally the following.
The kind of empirical state of bliss or experience of rebirth that is
soughtafter as the supreme value by a religion has obviously and neces-
sarily^vaneT^rordlnglo^the^character ofThe stratum which was fore-
most^m' adopting it. Thr chivalrous warrior class, peasants, business
classes, and intellectuals with literary education have naturally pursued
different religious tendencies. As will become evident, these tendencies
hkVe not by themselves determined the psychological character of religion;
they have, however, exerted a very lasting influence upon it. The contrast
between warrior and peasant classes, and intellectual and business classes,
is of special importance. Of these groups, the intellectuals have always
been the exponents of a rationalism which in their case has been rela-
tively theoretical. The business classes (merchants and artisans) have been
at least possible exponents of rationalism of a more practical sort. Rational-
28o RELIGION
ism of either kind has borne very different stamps, but has always exerted
a great influence upon the religious attitude.
Above all, the peculiarity of the intellectual strata in this matter has
been in the past of the greatest importance for religion. At the present
time, it matters little in the development of a religion whether or not
modern intellectuals feel the need of enjoying a 'religious' state as an
'experience,' in addition to all sorts of other sensations, in order to deco-
rate their internal and stylish furnishings with paraphernalia guaranteed
to be genuine and old. A religious revival has never sprung from such a
source. In the past, it was the work of the intellectuals to sublimate the
possession of sacred values into a belief in 'redemption.' The conception
of the idea of redemption, as such, is very old, if one understands by it a
liberation from distress, hunger, drought, sickness, and ultimately from
suffering and death. Yet redemption attained a specific significance only
where it expressed a systematic and rationalized 'image of the world' and
represented a stand in the face of the world. For the meaning as well as
the intended and actual psychological quality of redemption has de-
pended upon such a world image and such a stand. Not ideas, but
material and ideal interests, directly govern men's conduct. Yet very fre-
quently the 'world images' that have been created by 'ideas' have, like
switchmen, determined the tracks along which action has been pushed
by the dynamic of interest. 'From what' and 'for what' one wished to
be redeemed and, let us not forget, 'could be' redeemed, depended upon
one's image of the world.
There have been very different possibilities in this connection: One could
wish to be saved from political and social servitude and lifted into a
Messianic realm in the future of this world; or one could wish to be saved
from being defiled by ritual impurity and hope for the pure beauty of
psychic and bodily existence. One could wish to escape being incarcerated
in an impure body and hope for a purely spiritual existence. One could wish
to~be saved from the eternal and senseless play of human passions and de-
sires and hope for the quietude of the pure beholding of the divine. One
could wish to be saved from radical evil and the servitude of sin and-hope
for the eternal and free benevolence in the lap of a fatherly god. One could
wish to be saved from peonage under the astrologically conceived determi-
nation of stellar constellations and long for the dignity of freedom and par-
taking of the substance of the hiddeii deity. One coiild" wish to be redeemed
from the barriers to the finite, which express themselves in suffering, misery
and death, and the threatening punishment of hell, and hope for an eternal
THE SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY OF THE WORLD RELIGIONS 28 1
bliss in an earthly or paradisical future existence. One could wish to be
saved from the cycle of rebirths with their inexorable compensations for 1
the deeds of the times past and hope for eternal rest. One could wish to
be saved from senseless brooding and events and long for the dreamless
sleep. Many more varieties of belief have, of course, existed. Behind them
always lies^ a stand towards something in the actual world which is
experienoed_as specifically 'senseless.' Thus, the demand has been implied:
that the world order in its totality is, could, and should somehow be a
meaningful 'cosmos.' This quest, ;the core of genuine religious rational- 0 \
ism,Jias_heen-bom€ precisely by strata of intellectuals.] The avenues, the \
results, and the efficacy of this metaphysical need for a meaningful cosmos \
have" varied widely. Nevertheless, some general comments may be made. /
The general result of the modern form of thoroughly rationalizing the
conception of the world and of the way of life, theoretically and prac-
tically, in a purposive manner, has been that religion has been shifted
into the realm of the irrational. This has been the more the case the fur-
ther the purposive type of rationalization has progressed, if one takes the
standpoint of an intellectual articulation of an image of the world. This
^*s;«hift of religion into the irrational realm has occurred for several reasons. ,1,
(IpnThe one hand, the calculation of consistent rationalism has not easily
come out even with nothing left over. In music, the Pythagorean 'comma'
resisted complete rationalization oriented to tonal physics. The various
great systems of music of all peoples and ages have differed in the man-
ner in which they have either covered up or bypassed this inescapable
irrationality or, on the other hand, put irrationality into the service of
the richness of tonalities. The same has seemed to happen to the theoret-
ical conception of the world, only far more so; and above all, it has
seemed to happen to the rationalization of practical life. The various
great ways of leading a rational and methodical life have been charac-
terized bjT Irrational presuppositions, which have been accepted simply
as 'given' and which have been incorporated into such ways of life. What
these presuppositions have been is historically and socially determined,
at least to a very large extent, through the peculiarity of those strata that
have been the carriers of the ways of life during its formative and de- •
cisive period. The interest situation of these strata, as determined socially
and psychologically, has made for their peculiarity, as we here under-
stand it.
/jpTLirthermore, the irrational elements in the rationalization of reality
nSvebeen the loci to which the irrepressible quest of intellectualism for
282 RELIGION
the possession of supernatural values has been compelled to retreat. That
is the more so the more denuded of irrationality the world appears to be.
The unity of the primitive image of the world, in which everything was
concrete magic, has tended to split into rational cognition and mastery
of nature, on the one hand, and into 'mystic' experiences, on the other.
The inexpressible contents of such experiences remain the only possible
'beyond,' added to the mechanism of a world robbed of gods. In fact, the
beyond remains an incorporeal and rrjetaphysical realm in which indi-
viduals intimately possess the holy. 'Where this conclusion has been
drawn without any residue, the individual can pursue his quest for sal-
vation only as an individuaU Tl^is phenomenon appears in some form,
with progressive intellectualist rationalism, wherever men have ventured
to rationalize the image of the world as being a cosmos governed by
impersonal rules. Naturally it has occurred most strongly among religions
and religious ethics which have been quite strongly determined by gen-
teel strata of intellectuals devoted to the purely cognitive comprehension
of the world and of its 'meaning.' This was the case with Asiatic and,
above all, Indian world religions. For all of them, contemplation became
the supreme and ultimate religious value accessible to man. Contempla-
"^ion offered them entrance into the profound and blissful tranquillity
and immobility of the All-one. All other forms of religious states, how-
ever, have been at best considered a relatively valuable Ersatz for con-
templation. This has had far-reaching consequences for the relation of
religion to life, including economic life, as we shall repeatedly see. Such
consequences flow from the general character of 'mystic' experiences, in
the contemplative sense, and from the psychological preconditions of the
search for them.
The situation in which strata decisive for the development of a religion
were active in practical life has been entirely different. Where they were
chivalrous warrior heroes, political officials, economically acquisitive
classes, or, finally, where an organized hierocracy dominated religion, the
results were difTerent than where genteel intellectuals were decisive.
The rationalism of hierocracy grew out of the professional preoccupa-
tion with cult and myth or — to a far higher degree — out of the cure of
souls, that is, the confession of sin and counsel to sinners. Everywhere
hierocracy has sought to monopolize the administration of religious
values. They have also sought to bring and _tg_temper the bestowal of
religious goods into the form of 'sacramental' or 'corporate grace,' which
could l)e rituallylleestowed only~by "the priesthood and could not be
THE SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY OF THE WORLD RELIGIONS 283
attained by the individual. Tlie individual's quest for salvation or the
quest of'free communities by means o£ contemplation, orgies, or asceti-
cism, has been considered highly suspect and has had to be regulated
ritually and, above all, controlled hierocratically. From the standpoint of
the interests of the priesthood in power, this is only natural.
Every body of political officials, on the other hand, has been suspicious
of all sorts of individual pursuits of salvation and of the free formation
of communities as sources of emancipation from domestication at the
hands of the institution of the state. Political officials have distrusted the
competing priestly corporation of grace and, above all, at bottom they
have despised the very quest for these impractical values lying beyond
utilitarian and worldly ends. For all political bureaucracies, religious
duties have ultimately been simply official or social obligations of the
citizenry and of status groups. Ritual has corresponded to rules and
regulations, and, therefore, wherever a bureaucracy has determined its
nature, religion has assumed a ritualist character.
It is also usual for a stratum of chivalrous warriors to pursue abso-
lutely worlHly interests and to be remote from all 'mysticism.' Such strata,
however, have lacked — and this is^cRaracteristic of heroism in general —
the desire as well as the capacity for a rational mastery of reality. The
irrationality of 'fate' and, under certain conditions, the idea of a vague
and deterrninistically conceived 'destiny' (the Homeric Moira) has stood
above and behind the divinities and demons who were conceived of as
passionate and strong heroes, measuring out assistance and hostility,
glory and booty, or death to the human heroes.
Peasants havej3een inclined towards magic. Their whole economic
existence^has-been specifically bound to nature and has made them de-
pendent upon elemental forces. They readily believe in a compelling
sorcery directed against spirits who rule over or through natural forces,
or they believe in simply buying divine benevolence. Only tremendous
transformations of life-orientation have succeeded in tearing them away
from this universal and primeval form of religiosity. Such transformations
have been derived either from other strata or from mighty prophets, who,
through the power of miracles, legitimize themselves as sorcerers. Orgias-
tic and ecstatic states of 'possession,' produced by means of toxics or by
the dance, are strange to the status honor of knights because they are
considered undignified. Among the peasants, however, such states have
taken the place that 'mysticism' holds among the intellectuals.
Finally, we may consider the strata that in the western European
284 •"-""TN religion
sense are calledT 'civic,' as well as those which elsewhere correspond to
them: artisans, tracers, enterprisers engaged in cottage industry, and
their derivatives existing only in the modern Occident. Apparently these
strata have been the most ambiguous with regard to the religious stands
open to them. And this is especially important to us.
^1 Among these 'civic' strata the following religious phenomena have had
especially strong roots: the institutional and sacramental grace of the
Roman church in the medfeval cities — the pillars of the popes; the_mys-
tagogic and"sacramental grace in the ancient cities and in India; the
orgiastic and contemj)lative Sufi, and Dervish religion of the Middle
Eastern Orient; the Taoist magic; the Buddhist contemplation; the
ritualist appropriation of grace under the direction of souls by mysta-
gogues in Asia; all the forms of love for a savior; the beliefs in redemp-
tion the world over, from the cult of Krishna to the cult of Christ; the
rational ritualism of the law and the sermon of the synagogue denuded
of all magic among Jewry; the pneumatic and ancient as well as the
ascetTcisr^medieval sects; the grace of predestination and the ethical
regeneration of the Puritan and the Methodist; as well as all sorts of
individual' pursuits of salvation. All of these have been more firmly
rooted among 'civic' strata than among any other.
Of course, the religions of all strata are certainly far from being un-
ambiguously dependent upon the character of the strata we have pre-
j , sented as having special affinities with them. Yet, at first sight, civic
I j strata appear, in this respect and on the whole, to lend themselves to a
j more varied determination. Yet it is precisely among these strata that
I elective affinities for special types of religion stand out. TJi£_tendency
towards a practical rationalism in conduct is common to all civic strata; it
'is'cohditioned by the nature of their way of life, which is greatly detached
frorn economic bonds to nature. Their whole existence has been based
upon technological or economic calculations and upon the mastery of
nature and of man, however primitive the means at their disposal. The
technique of living handed down among them may, of course, be frozen
in traditionalism, as has occurred repeatedly and everywhere. But pre-
cisely for these, there has always existed the possibility — even though in
greatly varying measure — of letting an ethical and rational regulation of
life arise. This may occur by the linkage of such an ethic to the tendency
of technological and economic rationalism. Such regulation has not
always been able to make headway against traditions which, in the main,
were magically stereotyped. But where prophecy has provided a religious
THE SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY OF THE WORLD RELIGIONS 285
basis, this basis could be one of two fundamental types of prophecy which
we shall repeatedly discuss: 'exemplary' prophecy, and 'emissary' prophecy.
Exemplary prophecy points out the path to salvation by exemplary
living^usually by a contemplative and apathetic-ecstatic life. The emis-
sary type of prophecy addresses its demands to the world in the name
of a god. Naturally these demands are ethical; and they are often of an
active ascetic character.
It is quite understandable that the more weighty the civic strata as such
have been, and the more they have been torn from bonds of taboo and
from divisions into sibs and castes, the more favorable has been the soil
for religions that call for action in this world. Under these conditions,
the preferred religious attitude could become the attitude of active asceti-
cism, of God-wiUed action nourished by the sentiment of being God's
'tool,' rather than the possession of the deity or the inward and contem-
plative surrender to God, which has appeared as the supreme value to
religions influenced by strata of genteel intellectuals. In the Occident the
attitude of active asceticism has repeatedly retained supremacy over con-
templative mysticism and orgiastic or apathetic ecstasy, even though these
latter types have been well known in the Occident. Active asceticism,
however, has not been confined to civic strata. Such an unambiguous
social determination has not in any way existed. The prophecy of
Zoroaster was directed at the nobility and the peasantry; the prophecy of
Islam was directed to warriors. These prophecies, like the Israelite and
the early Christian prophecy and preaching, have had an active character,
which stands in contrast with the propaganda of Buddhism, Taoism,
Neo-Pythagorism, Gnosticism, and Sufism. Certain specific conclusions
of emissary prophecies, however, have been drawn precisely on 'civic'
grounds.
In the missionary prophecy the devout have not experienced themselves
as vessels of the divine but rather as instruments of a god. This emissary
prophecy has had a profound elective affinity to a special conception of
God: the conception of a supra-mundane, personal, wrathful, forgiving,
loving, demanding, punishing Lord of Creation. Such a conception
stands in contrast to the supreme being of exemplary prophecy. As a
rule, though by no means without exception, the supreme being of an
exemplary prophecy is an impersonal being because, as a static state, he
is accessible only by means of contemplation. The conception of an, active
God, held by emissary prophecy, has dominated the Iranian and Mid-
Eastern religions and those Occidental religions which are derived from
286 RELIGION
theiru_The conception of a supreme and static being, held by exemplary
prophecy, has come to dominate Indian and Chinese religiosity.
These differences are not primitive in nature. On the contrary, they
have come into existence only by means of a far-reaching sublimation of
primitive conceptions of animist spirits and of heroic deities which are
everywhere similar in nature. Certainly the connection of conceptions of
God with religious states, which are evaluated and desired as sacred
values, have also been strongly influential in this process of sublimation.
These religious states have simply been interpreted in the direction of a
different conception of God, according to whether the holy states, eval-
uated as supreme, were contemplative mystic experiences or apathetic
ecstasy, or whether they were the orgiastic possession of god, or visionary
inspirations and 'commands.'
At the present time, it is widely held that one should consider emo-
tional content as primary, with thoughts being merely its secondary
expression. Of course, this point of view is to a great extent justified.
From such a standpoint one might be inclined to consider the primacy
of 'psychological' as over against 'rational' connections as the only de-
cisive causal nexus, hence to view these rational connections as mere
interpretations of the psychological ones. This, however, would be going
much too far, according to factual evidence. A whole series of purely
historical motives have determined the development toward the supra-
mundane or the immanent conception of God. These conceptions, in
turn, have decisively influenced the way in which experiences of salva-
tion have been articulated. This definitely holds for the conception of
the supra-mundane God, as we shall see again and again. If even Meister
Eckhart occasionally and expressly placed Martha above Mary, he did
so ultimately because he could not realize the pantheist experience of
God, which is peculiar to the mystic, without entirely sacrificing all the
decisive elements of Occidental belief in God and creation.
The rational elements of a religion, its 'doctrine,' also have an auton-
omy: for instance, the Indian doctrine of Kharma, the Calvinist belief in
predestination, the Lutheran justification through faith, and the Catholic
doctrine of sacrament. The rational religious pragmatism of salvation,
flowing from the nature of the images of God and of the world, have
under certain conditions had far-reaching results for the fashioning of a
practical way of life.
These comments presuppose that the nature of the desired sacred
values has been strongly influenced by the nature of the external interest-
THE SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY OF THE WORLD RELIGIONS 287
situation and the corresponding way of life of the ruHng strata and thus
by the social stratification itself. But the reverse also holds : wherever the
direction of the whole way of life has been methodically rationalized, it
has been profoundly determined by the ultimate values toward which
this rationalization has been directed. These values and positions were
thus religiously determined. Certainly they have not always, or exclu- ••,
sively, been decisive; however, they have been decisive in so far as an
ethical rationalization held sway, at least so far as its influence reached.
As a rule, these religious values have been also, and frequently absolutely,
decisive.
One factor has been very important in determining the nature of the
mutual inter-relations between external and internal interest-situations.
The 'supreme' sacred values, which are promised by religion and have
been discussed above, have not necessarily been the most universal ones.
Not everybody had entree to Nirvana, to the contemplative union with
the divine, the orgiastic or the ascetic possession of God. In a weakened
form, the transposition of persons into religious states of frenzy or into
the trance may become the object of a universal cult of the people. But
even in this form such psychic states have not been elements of everyday
life.
The empirical fact, important for us, that men are differently qualified
in a religious way stands at the beginning of the history of religion.
This fact had been dogmatized in the sharpest rationalist form in the
'particularism of grace,' embodied in the doctrine of predestination by
the Calvinists. The sacred values that have been most cherished, the
ecstatic and visionary capacities of shamans, sorcerers, ascetics, and pneu-
matics of all sorts, could not be attained by everyone. The possession of
such faculties is a 'charisma,' which, to be sure, might be awakened in ^
some but not in all. It follows from this that all intensive religiosity has a •
tendency toward a sort of status stratification, in accordance with differ-
ences in the charismatic qualifications. 'Heroic' or 'virtuoso' religiosity ^
is opposed to mass religiosity. By 'mass' we understand those who are
religiously 'unmusical'; we do not, of course, mean those who occupy
an inferior position in the secular status order. In this sense, the status
carriers of a virtuoso religion have been the leagues of sorcerers and
sacred dancers; the religious status group of the Indian Sramana and of
the early Christian 'ascetics,' who were expressly recognized in the con-
gregation as a special 'estate'; the Paulinian, and still more the Gnostic,
'pneumatics,' the pietist ecclesiola; all genuine 'sects' — that is, sociolog-
288 RELIGION
ically speaking, associations that accept oniy religiously qualified persons
in their midst; and finally, monk communities all over the world. ■
Now, every hierocratic and official authority of a 'church' — that is, a
community organized by officials into an institution which bestows gifts
of grace — fights principally against all virtuoso-religion and against its
autonomous development. For the church, being the holder of institu-
tionalized grace, seeks to organize the reHgiosity of the masses and to
put its own officially monopolized and mediated sacred values in the
place of the autonomous and religious status qualifications of the reli-
gious virtuosos. By its nature, that is, according to the interest-situation of
its officeholders, the church must be 'democratic' in the sense of making
the sacred values generally accessible. This means that the church stands
for a universalism of grace and for the ethical sufficiency of all those
who are enrolled under its institutional authority. Sociologically, the
process of leveling constitutes a complete parallel with the political
struggles of the bureaucracy against the political privileges of the aristo-
cratic estates. As with hierocracy, every full-grown political bureaucracy
is necessarily and in a quite similar sense 'democratic' — namely, in the
sense of leveling and of fighting against status privileges that compete
with its power.
The most varied compromises have resulted from this struggle be-
tween officialdoms and the virtuosos. These struggles have not always
been official but they have always existed at least covertly. Thus, the
religiosity of the Ulema '^ stood against the religiosity of the Dervishes;
the early Christian bishops against the pneumatics and heroist sectaries as
well as against the power of The Key of asceticist charisma; the Lutheran
preacher's office and the Anglican and priestly church stood against
asceticism in general; the Russian state church was opposed to the sects;
and the official management of the Confucian cult stood against
Buddhist, Taoist, and sectarian pursuits of salvation of all sorts. The
religious virtuosos saw themselves compelled to adjust their demands to
the possibilities of the religiosity of everyday life in order to gain and to
maintain ideal and material mass-patronage. The nature of their con-
cessions have naturally been of primary significance for the way in
which they have religiously influenced everyday life. In almost all
Oriental religions, the virtuosos allowed the masses to remain stuck in
magical tradition. Thus, the influence of religious virtuosos has been infi-
nitely smaller than was the case where religion has undertaken ethically
and generally to rationalize everyday life. This has been the case even
THE SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY OF THE WORLD RELIGIONS 289
when religion has aimed precisely at the masses and has cancelled how-
ever many of its ideal demands. Besides the relations between the relig-
iosity of the virtuosos and the religion of the masses, which finally re-
sulted from this struggle, the peculiar nature of the concrete religiosity
of the virtuosos has been of decisive importance for the development of
the way of life of the masses. This virtuoso religiosity has therefore also
been important for the economic ethic of the respective religion. The
religion of the virtuoso has been the genuinely 'exemplary' and practical
religion. According to the way of life his religion prescribed to the vir-
tuoso, there have been various possibilities of establishing a rational
ethic of everyday life. The relation of virtuoso religion to workaday life
in the locus of the economy has varied, especially according to the pe-
culiarity of the sacred values desired by such religions.
Wherever the sacred values and the redemptory means of a virtuoso
religion bore a contemplative or orgiastic-ecstatic character, there has
been no bridge between religion and the practical action of the workaday
world. In such cases, the economy and all other action in the world
has been considered religiously inferior, and no psychological motives
for worldly action could be derived from the attitude cherished as the
supreme value. In their innermost beings, contemplative and ecstatic
religions have been rather specifically hostile to economic life. Mystic,
orgiastic, and ecstatic experiences are extraordinary psychic states; they
lead away from everyday life and from all expedient conduct. Such ex-
periences are, therefore, deemed to be 'holy.' With such religions, a deep
abyss separates the way of life of the laymen from that of the com-
munity of virtuosos. The rule of the status groups of religious virtuosos
over the religious community readily shifts into a magical anthropolatry ;
the virtuoso is directly worshipped as a Saint, or at least laymen buy
his blessing and his magical powers as a means of promoting mun-
dane success or religious salvation. As the peasant was to the landlord,
so the layman was to the Buddhist and Jainist bhikshu:^ ultimately,
mere sources of tribute. Such tribute allowed the virtuosos to live entirely
for religious salvation without themselves performing profane work,
which always would endanger their salvation. Yet the conduct of the
layman could still undergo a certain ethical regulation, for the virtuoso
was the layman's spiritual adviser, his father confessor and directeur de
I'dme. Hence, the virtuoso frequently exercises a powerful influence over
the religiously 'unmusical' laymen; this influence might not be in the
direction of his (the virtuoso's) own religious way of life; it might be
290 RELIGION
an influence in merely ceremonious, ritualist, and conventional partic-
ulars. For action in this world remained in principle religiously insignifi-
cant; and compared with the desire for the religious end, action lay in
the very opposite direction.
In the end, the charisma of the pure 'mystic' serves only himself. The
charisma of the genuine magician serves others.
Things have been quite different where the religiously qualified vir-
tuosos have combined into an ascetic sect, striving to mould life in this
world according to the will of a god. To be sure, two things were neces-
sary before this could happen in a genuine way. First, the supreme and
sacred value must not be of a contemplative nature; it must not consist
of a union with a supra-mundane being who, in contrast to the world,
lasts forever; nor in a iinia mystica to be grasped orgiastically or apa-
thetic-ecstatically. For these ways always lie apart from everyday life and
beyond the real world and lead away from it. Second, such a religion
must, so far as possible, have given up the purely magical or sacra-
mental character of the means of grace. For these means always devalue
action in this world as, at best, merely relative in their religious signifi-
cance, and they link the decision about salvation to the success of proc-
esses which are not of a rational everyday nature.
When religious virtuosos have combined into an active asceticist sect,
two aims are completely attained: the disenchantment of the world and
the blockage of the path to salvation by a flight from the world. The
path to salvation is turned away from a contemplative 'flight from the
world' and towards an active ascetic 'work in this world.' If one disre-
gards the small rationalist sects, such as are found all over the world,
this has been attained only in the great church and sect organizations of
Occidental and asceticist Protestantism. The quite distinct and the
purely historically determined destinies of Occidental religions have
co-operated in this matter. Partly, the social environment exerted an
influence, above all, the environment of the stratum that was decisive
for the development of such religion. Partly, however — and just as
strongly — the intrinsic character of Christianity exerted an influence:
the supra-mundane God and the specificity of the means and paths of
salvation as determined historically, first by Israelite prophecy and the
thora doctrine.^
The religious virtuoso can be placed in the world as the instrument
of a God and cut off from all magical means of salvation. At the same
time, it is imperative for the virtuoso that he 'prove' himself before God,
THE SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY OF THE WORLD RELIGIONS 29I
as being called solely through the ethical quality of his conduct in this
world. This actually means that he 'prove' himself to himself as well.
No matter how much the 'world' as such is religiously devalued and
rejected as being creatural and a vessel of sin, yet psychologically the
world is all the more affirmed as the theatre of God-willed activity in
one's worldly 'calling.' For this inner-worldly asceticism rejects the
world in the sense that it despises and taboos the values of dignity and
beauty, of the beautiful frenzy and the dream, purely secular power,
and the purely worldly pride of the hero. Asceticism outlawed these
values as competitors of the kingdom of God. Yet precisely because of
this rejection, asceticism did not fly from the world, as did contempla-
tion. Instead, asceticism has wished to rationalize the world ethically in
accordance with God's commandments. It has therefore remained
oriented towards the world in a more specific and thoroughgoing sense
than did the naive 'affirmation of the world' of unbroken humanity, for
instance, in Antiquity and in lay-Catholicism. In inner-worldly asceti-
cism, the grace and the chosen state of the religiously qualified man
prove themselves in everyday life. To be sure, they do so not in the
everyday life as it is given, but in methodical and rationalized routine-
activities of workaday life in the service of the Lord. Rationally raised into
a vocation, everyday conduct becomes the locus for proving one's state of
grace. The Occidental sects of the religious virtuosos have fermented the
methodical rationalization of conduct, including economic conduct.
These sects have not constituted valves for the longing to escape from
the senselessness of work in this world, as did the Asiatic communities
of the ecstatics: contemplative, orgiastic, or apathetic.
The most varied transitions and combinations are found between the
polar opposites of 'exemplary' and 'emissary' prophecy. Neither reli-
gions nor men are open books. They have been historical rather than
logical or even psychological constructions without contradiction. Often
they have borne within themselves a series of motives, each of which, if
separately and consistently followed through, would have stood in the
way of the others or run against them head-on. In religious matters
'consistency' has been the exception and not the rule. The ways and
means of salvation are also psychologically ambiguous. The search for
God of the early Christian monk as well as of the Quaker contained
very strong contemplative elements. Yet the total content of their re-
ligions and, above all, their supra-mundane God of creation and their
way of making sure of their states of grace again and again directed
292 RELIGION
them to the course of action. On the other hand, the Buddhist monk was
also active, but his activities were withdrawn from any consistent ration-
ahzation in this world; his quest for salvation was ultimately oriented
to the flight from the 'wheel' of the rebirths. The sectarians and other
brotherhoods of the Occidental Middle Ages spearheaded the religious
penetration of everyday life. They found their counter-image in the
brotherhoods of Islam, which were even more widely developed. The
stratum typical of such brotherhoods in the Occident and in Islam were
identical: petty bourgeois and especially artisans. Yet the spirit of their
respective religions were very different. Viewed externally, numerous
Hinduist religious communities appear to be 'sects' just as do those of
the Occident. The sacred value, however, and the manner in which
values were mediated pointed in radically different directions.
We shall not accumulate more examples here, as we wish to consider
the great religions separately. In no r'^spect can one simply integrate
various world religions into a chain of types, each of them signifying a
new 'stage.' All the great religions are historical individualities of a
highly complex nature; taken all together, they exhaust only a few of
the possible combinations that could conceivably be formed from the
the very numerous individual factors to be considered in such historical
combinations.
Thus, the following presentations do not in any way constitute a
systematic 'typology' of religion. On the other hand, they do not consti-
tute a purely historical work. They are 'typological' in the sense that they
consider what is typically important in the historical realizations of the
religious ethics. This is important for the connection of religions with
the great contrasts of the economic mentalities. Other aspects will be
neglected; these presentations do not claim to offer a well-rounded pic-
ture of world religions. Those features peculiar to the individual re-
ligions, in contrast to other religions, but which at the same time are
important for our interest, must be brought out strongly. A presentation
that disregards these special accents of importance would often have to
tone down the special features in which we are interested. Such a bal-
anced presentation would almost always have to add other features and
occasionally would have to give greater emphasis to the fact that, of
course, all qualitative contrasts in reality, in the last resort, can somehow
be comprehended as purely quantitative differences in the combinations
of single factors. However, it would be extremely unfruitful to emphasize
and repeat here what goes without saying.
THE SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY OF THE WORLD RELIGIONS 293
The features of religions that are important for economic ethics shall
interest us primarily from a definite point of view: we shall be interested
in the way in which they are related to economic rationalism. More pre- j
cisely, we mean the economic rationalism of the type which, since the '
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, has come to dominate the Occident
as part of the particular rationalization of civic life, and which has
become familiar in this part of the world.
We have to remind ourselves in advance that 'rationalism' may mean
very different things. It means one thing if we think of the kind of
rationahzation the systematic thinker performs on the image of the
world: an increasing theoretical mastery of reality by means of increas-
ingly precise and abstract concepts. Rationalism means another thing if
we think of the methodical attainment of a definitely given and practical
end by means of an increasingly precise calculation of adequate means.
These types of rationaUsm are very different, in spite of the fact that
ultimately they belong inseparately together. Similar types may be dis-
tinguished even within the intellectual comprehension of reality; for
instance, the differences between English Physics and Continental Physics
has been traced back to such a type difference within the comprehension
of reality. The rationalization of life conduct with which we have to
deal here can assume unusually varied forms.
In the sense of the absence of all metaphysics and almost all residues
of religious anchorage, Confucianism is rationalist to such a far-going
extent that it stands at the extreme boundary of what one might possibly
call a 'religious' ethic. At the same time, Confucianism is more rational-
ist and sober, in the sense of the absence and the rejection of all non-
utilitarian yardsticks, than any other ethical system, with the possible
exception of J. Bentham's. Yet Confucianism, in spite of constantly actual
and apparent analogies, nevertheless differs extraordinarily from Ben-
tham's as well as from all other Occidental types of practical rationalism.
The supreme artistic ideal of the Renaissance was 'rational' in the sense
of a belief in a valid 'canon,' and the view of life of the Renaissance was
rational in the sense of rejecting traditionalist bonds and of having faith
in the power of the naturalis ratio. This type of rationalism prevailed in
spite of certain elements of Platonizing mysticism.
'Rational' may also mean a 'systematic arrangement.' ^ In this sense,
the following methods are rational: methods of mortificatory or of
magical asceticism, of contemplation in its most consistent forms — for
294 RELIGION
instance, in yoga — or in the manipulations of the prayer machines of
later Buddhism.
In general, all kinds of practical ethics that are systematically and
unambiguously oriented to fixed goals of salvation are 'rational,' partly
in the same sense as formal method is rational, and partly in the sense
that they distinguish between 'valid' norms and what is empirically
given. These types of rationalization processes are of interest to us in
the following presentations. It would be senseless to try to anticipate the
typologies of these presentations here, for they aim to make a contribu-
tion to such typology.
In order to make this attempt, the author must take the liberty of being
'unhistorical,' in the sense that the ethics of individual religions are pre-
sented systematically and essentially in greater unity than has ever been
the case in the flux of their actual development. Rich contrasts which
have been alive in individual religions, as well as incipient developments
and ramifications, must be left aside; and the features that to the author
are important must often be presented in greater logical consistency and
less historical development than was actually the case. If it were done
arbitrarily, this simplification would be a historical 'falsification.' This,
however, is not the case, at least not intentionally. The author has always
underscored those features in the total picture of a religion which have
been decisive for the fashioning of the practical way of life, as well as
those which distinguish one religion from another.^**
Finally, before going into the subject matter, some remarks by way of
explaining terminological pecuHarities which frequently recur in the
presentation may be advanced.^^
When fully developed, religious associations and communities belong
to a type of corporate authority. They represent 'hierocratic' associations,
that is, their power to rule is supported by their monopoly in the bestowal
or denial of sacred values.
All ruling powers, profane and religious, political and apolitical, may
be considered as variations of, or approximations to, certain pure types.
These types are constructed by searching for the basis of legitimacy,
which the ruling power claims. Our modern 'associations,' above all the
political ones, are of the type of 'legal' authority. That is, the legitimacy
of the power-holder to give commands rests upon rules that are rationally
established by enactment, by agreement, or by imposition. The legitima-
tion for establishing these rules rests, in turn, upon a rationally enacted
or interpreted 'constitution.' Orders are given in the name of the imper-
THE SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY OF THE WORLD RELIGIONS 295
sonal norm, rather than in the name of a personal authority; and even
the giving of a command constitutes obedience toward a norm rather
than an arbitrary freedom, favor, or privilege.
The 'official' is the holder of the power to command; he never exer-
cises this power in his own right; he holds it as a trustee of the imper-
sonal and 'compulsory institution.' ^- This institution is made up of the
specific patterns of life of a plurality of men, definite or indefinite, yet
specified according to rules. Their joint pattern of life is normatively gov-
erned by statutory regulations.
The 'area of jurisdiction' is a functionally delimited realm of possible
objects for command and thus delimits the sphere of the official's legiti-
mate power. A hierarchy of superiors, to which officials may appeal and
complain in an order of rank, stands opposite the citizen or member of
the association. Today this situation also holds for the hierocratic associa-
tion that is the church. The pastor or priest has his definitely limited
'jurisdiction,' which is fixed by rules. This also holds for the supreme
head of the church. The present concept of [papal] 'infallibility' is a
jurisdictional concept. Its inner meaning differs from that which pre-
ceded it, even up to the time of Innocent III.
The separation of the 'private sphere' from the 'official sphere' (in the
case of infallibility: the ex cathedra definition) is carried through in the
church in the same way as in political, or other, officialdoms. The legal
separation of the official from the means of administration (either in
natural or in pecuniary form) is carried through in the sphere of political
and hierocratic associations in the same way as is the separation of the
worker from the means of production in capitalist economy: it runs
fully parallel to them.
No matter how many beginnings may be found in the remote past, in
its full development all this is specifically modern. The past has known
other bases for authority, bases which, incidentally, extend as survivals
into the present. Here we wish merely to outline these bases of authority
in a terminological way.
A I. In the following discussions the term 'charisma^ shall be understood
to refer to an extraordinary quality of a person, regardless of whether this
quality is actual, alleged, or presumed. 'Charismatic authority,' hence,
shall refer to a rule over men, whether predominantly external or pre-
dominantly internal, to which the governed submit because of their
belief in the extraordinary quality of the specific person. The magical
296 RELIGION
sorcerer, the prophet, the leader of hunting and booty expeditions, the
warrior chieftain, the so-called 'Caesarist' ruler, and, under certain con-
ditions, the personal head of a party are such types of rulers for their
disciples, followings, enlisted troops, parties, et cetera. The legitimacy of
their rule rests on the belief in and the devotion to the extraordinary,
which is valued because it goes beyond the normal human qualities, and
which was originally valued as supernatural. The legitimacy of charis-
matic rule thus rests upon the belief in magical powers, revelations and
hero worship. The source of these beliefs is the 'proving' of the charismatic
quality through miracles, through victories and other successes, that is,
through the welfare of the governed. Such beliefs and the claimed au-
thority resting on them therefore disappear, or threaten to disappear, as
soon as proof is lacking and as soon as the charismatically qualified person
appears to be devoid of his magical power or forsaken by his god. Charis-
matic rule is not managed according to general norms, either traditional
or rational, but, in principle, according to concrete revelations and in-
spirations, and in this sense, charismatic authority is 'irrational.' It is
'revolutionary' in the sense of not being bound to the existing order:
'It is written — but I say unto you . . . !'
2. 'Traditionalism' in the following discussions shall refer to the psychic
attitude-set for the habitual workaday and to the belief in the everyday
routine as an inviolable norm of conduct. Domination that rests upon
this basis, that is, upon piety for what actually, allegedly, or presumably
has always existed, will be called 'traditionalist authority.'
Patriarchahsm is by far the most important type of domination the
legitimacy of which rests upon tradition. Patriarchalism means the au-
thority of the father, the husband, the senior of the house, the sib elder
over the members of the household and sib; the rule of the master and
patron over bondsmen, serfs, freed men; of the lord over the domestic
servants and household officials; of the prince over house- and court-
officials, nobles of office, cHents, vassals; of the patrimonial lord and
sovereign prince {Landesvater) over the 'subjects.'
It is characteristic of patriarchical and of patrimonial authority, which
represents a variety of the former, that the system of inviolable norms
is considered sacred; an infraction of them would result in magical or
religious evils. Side by side with this system there is a realm of free
arbitrariness and favor of the lord, who in principle judges only in terms
of 'personal,' not 'functional,' relations. In this sense, traditionalist au-
thority is irrational.
THE SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY OF THE WORLD RELIGIONS 297
3. Throughout early history, charismatic authority, which rests upon a
behef in the sanctity or the value of the extraordinary, and traditionalist
(patriarchical) domination, which rests upon a belief in the sanctity of
everyday routines, divided the most important authoritative relations
between them. The bearers of charisma, the oracles of prophets, or the
edicts of charismatic war lords alone could integrate 'new' laws into the
circle of what was upheld by tradition. Just as revelation and the sword
were the two extraordinary powers, so were they the two typical inno-
vators. In typical fashion, however, both succumbed to routinization as
soon as their work was done.
With the death of the prophet or the war lord the question of suc-
cessorship arises. This question can be solved by Kurung, which was
originally not an 'election' but a selection in terms of charismatic quali-
fication; or the question can be solved by the sacramental substantiation
of charisma, the successor being designated by consecration, as is the case
in hierocratic or apostolic succession; or the belief in the charismatic
qualification of the charismatic leader's sib can lead to a belief in heredi-
tary charisma, as represented by hereditary kingship and hereditary
hierocracy. With these routinizations, rules in some form always come
to govern. The prince or the hierocrat no longer rules by virtue of
purely personal qualities, but by virtue of acquired or inherited qualities,
or because he has been legitimized by an act of charismatic election. The
process of routinization, and thus traditionalization, has set in.
Perhaps it is even more important that when the organization of
authority becomes permanent, the staff supporting the charismatic ruler
becomes routinized. The ruler's disciples, apostles, and followers became
priests, feudal vassals and, above all, officials. The original charismatic
community lived communistically off donations, alms, and the booty of
war: they were thus specifically alienated from the economic order. The
community was transformed into a stratum of aids to the ruler and
depended upon him for maintenance through the usufruct of land, office
fees, income in kind, salaries, and hence, through prebends. The staff
derived its legitimate power in greatly varying stages of appropriation,
infeudation, conferment, and appointment. As a rule, this meant that
princely prerogatives became patrimonial in nature. Patrimonialism can
also develop from pure patriarchalism through the disintegration of the
patriarchical master's strict authority. By virtue of conferment, the preb-
endary or the vassal has as a rule had a personal right to the office be-
stowed upon him. Like the artisan who possessed the economic means of
V
298 RELIGION
production, the prebendary possessed the means of administration. He had
to bear the costs of administration out of his office fees or other income,
or he passed on to the lord only part of the taxes gathered from the
subjects, retaining the rest. In the extreme case he could bequeath and
alienate his office like other possession. We wish to speak of status patri-
monialism when the development by appropriation of prerogatory power
has reached this stage, without regard to whether it developed from
charismatic or patriarchical beginnings.
The development, however, has seldom stopped at this stage. We
always meet with a struggle between the political or hierocratic lord and
the owners or usurpers of prerogatives, which they have appropriated as
status groups. The ruler attempts to expropriate the estates, and the es-
tates attempt to expropriate the ruler. The more the ruler succeeds in
attaching to himself a staff of officials who depend solely on himi and
whose interests are linked to his, the more this struggle is decided in
favor of the ruler and the more the privilege-holding estates are grad-
ually expropriated. In this connection, the prince acquires administrative
means of his own and he keeps them firmly in his own hands. Thus we
find political rulers in the Occident, and progressively from Innocent III
to Johann XXII, also hierocratic rulers who have finances of their own,
as well as secular rulers who have magazines and arsenals of their own
for the provisioning of the army and the officials.
The character of the stratum of officials upon whose support the ruler
has relied in the struggle for the expropriation of status prerogatives has
varied greatly in history. In Asia and in the Occident during the early
Middle Ages they were typically clerics; during the Oriental Middle
Ages they were typically slaves and clients; for the Roman Principate,
freed slaves to a limited extent were typical; humanist literati were
typical for China; and finally, jurists have been typical for the modern
Occident, in ecclesiastical as well as in political associations.
The triumph of princely power and the expropriation of particular
prerogatives has everywhere signified at least the possibility, and often
the actual introduction, of a rational administration. As we shall see,
however, this rationalization has varied greatly in extent and meaning.
One must, above all, distinguish between the substantive rationaHzation
of administration and of judiciary by a patrimonial prince, and the formal
rationalization carried out by trained jurists. The former bestows utili-
tarian and social ethical blessings upon his subjects, in the manner of
the master of a large house upon the members of his household. The
THE SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY OF THE WORLD RELIGIONS 299
trained jurists have carried out the rule of general laws applying to all
'citizens of the state.' However fluid the difference has been— for instance,
in Babylon or Byzantium, in the Sicily of the Hohenstaufen, or the
England of the Stuarts, or the France of the Bourbons— in the final
analysis, the difference between substantive and formal rationality has
persisted. And, in the main, it has been the work of jurists to give birth
to the modern Occidental 'state' as well as to the Occidental 'churches.'
We shall not discuss at this point the source of their strength, the sub-
stantive ideas, and the technical means for this work.
With the triumph of formalist juristic rationalism, the legal type of
domination appeared in the Occident at the side of the transmitted types
of domination. Bureaucratic rule was not and is not the only variety of
legal authority, but it is the purest. The modern state and municipal
official, the modern Catholic priest and chaplain, the officials and em-
ployees of modern banks and of large capitalist enterprises represent, as
we have already mentioned, the most important types of this structure
of domination.
The following characteristic must be considered decisive for our ter-
minology: in legal authority, submission does not rest upon the belief
and devotion to charismatically gifted persons, like prophets and heroes,
or upon sacred tradition, or upon piety toward a personal lord and master
who is defined by an ordered tradition, or upon piety toward the possible
incumbents of office fiefs and office prebends who are legitimized in their
own right through privilege and conferment. Rather, submission under
legal authority is based upon an impersonal bond to the generally defined
and functional 'duty of office.' The official duty — like the corresponding
right to exercise authority: the 'jurisdictional competency' — is fixed by
rationally established norms, by enactments, decrees, and regulations, in
such a manner that the legitimacy of the authority becomes the legality
of the general rule, which is purposely thought out, enacted, and an-
nounced with formal correctness.
The differences between the types of authority we have sketched per-
tain to all particulars of their social structure and of their economic
significance. Only a systematic presentation could demonstrate how far
the distinctions and terminology chosen here are expedient. Here we
may emphasize merely that by approaching in this way, we do not claim
to use the only possible approach nor do we claim that all empirical
structures of domination must correspond to one of these 'pure' types.
On the contrary, the great majority of empirical cases represent a com-
300 RELIGION
bination or a state of transition among several such pure types. We
shall be compelled again and again to form expressions like 'patrimonial
bureaucracy' in order to make the point that the characteristic traits of
the respective phenomenon belong in part to the rational form of dom-
ination, whereas other traits belong to a traditionalist form of domination,
in this case to that of estates. We also recognize highly important forms
that have been universally diilused throughout history, such as the
feudal structure of domination. Important aspects of these structures,
however, cannot be classified smoothly under any one of the three forms
we have distinguished. They can be understood only as combinations
involving several concepts, in this case the concepts of 'status group'
and 'status honor.' There are also forms that have to be understood partly
in terms of principles other than those of 'domination,' partly in terms
of peculiar variations of the concept of charisma. Examples are: the func-
tionaries of pure democracy with rotations of honorific offices and similar
forms, on the one hand, and plebiscitarian domination, on the other
hand, or certain forms of notable rule that are special forms of traditional
domination. Such forms, however, have certainly belonged to the most
important ferments for the delivery of political rationalism. By the
terminology suggested here, we do not wish to force schematically the
infinite and multifarious historical life, but simply to create concepts
useful for special purposes and for orientation.
y The same qualifications hold for a final terminological distinction.
We understand by 'status' situation the probability of certain social
groups' receiving positive or negative social honor. The chances of attain-
ing social honor are primarily determined by differences in the styles of
life of these groups, hence chiefly by differences of education. Referring
to the preceding terminology of forms of authority, we may say that,
secondarily, social honor very frequently and typically is associated with
the respective stratum's legally guaranteed and monopolized claim to
sovereign rights or to income and profit opportunities of a certain kind.
Thus, if all these characteristics are found, which, of course, is not
always the case, a 'status group' is a group societalized through its special
styles of life, its conventional and specific notions of honor, and the
economic opportunities it legally monopolizes. A status group is always
somehow societalized, but it is not always organized into an association.
Commercium, in the sense of 'social intercourse,' and connubiuin among
groups are the typical characteristics of the mutual esteem among status
equals; their absence signifies status difTerences.
I
THE SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY OF THE WORLD RELIGIONS 3OI
By 'class situation,' in contrast, we shall understand the opportunities
to gain sustenance and income that are primarily determined by typical,
economically relevant, situations; property of a certain kind, or acquired
skill in the execution of services that are in demand, is decisive for
income opportunities. 'Class situation' also comprises the ensuing gen-
eral and typical living conditions, for instance, the necessity of complying
with the discipline of a capitalist proprietor's workshop.
A 'status situation' can be the cause as well as the result of a 'class
situation,' but it need be neither. Class situations, in turn, can be pri-
marily determined by markets, by the labor market and the commodity
market. The specific and typical cases of class situation today) are ones
determined by markets. But such is not necessarily the case: class situa-
tions of landlord and small peasant may depend upon market relations
only in a negligible way. In their differing situations, the various cate-
gories of 'rentiers' depend on the market in greatly varying senses and
extents, according to whether they derive their rents as landlords, slave-
holders, or as owners of bonds and effects.
One must therefore distinguish between 'propertied classes' and pri-
marily market-determined 'income classes.' Present-day society is pre-
dominantly stratified in classes, and to an especially high degree in
income classes. But in the special status prestige of the 'educated' strata,
our society contains a very tangible element of stratification by status.
Externally, this status factor is most obviously represented by economic
monopolies and the preferential social opportunities of the holders of
degrees.
In the past the significance of stratification by status was far more
decisive, above all, for the economic structure of the societies. For, on the
one hand, status stratification influences the economic structure by bar-
riers or regulations of consumption, and by status monopolies which
from the point of view of economic rationality are irrational, and on
the other hand, status stratification influences the economy very strongly
through the bearing of the status conventions of the respective ruling
strata who set the example. These conventions may be in the nature of
ritualist stereotyped forms, which to a large extent has been the case /
with the status stratification of Asia.
XII. Tne Protestant Sects and tne Opirit ol
(capitalism
For some time in the United States a principled 'separation of state and
church' has existed. This separation is carried through so strictly that
there is not even an official census o£ denominations, for it would be
considered against the law for the state even to ask the citizen for his
denomination. We shall not here discuss the practical importance of
this principle of the relation between religious organizations and the
state.* We are interested, rather, in the fact that scarcely two and a half
decades ago the number of 'persons without church affiliation' in the
U.S.A. was estimated to be only about 6 per cent; ^ and this despite the
absence of all those highly effective premiums which most of the Euro-
pean states then placed upon affiliation with certain privileged churches
and despite the immense immigration to the U.S.A.
It should be realized, in addition, that church affiliation in the U.S.A.
brings with it incomparably higher financial burdens, especially for the
poor, than anywhere in Germany. Published family budgets prove this,
and I have personally known of many burdened cases in a congrega-
tion in a city on Lake Erie, which was almost entirely composed of
German immigrant lumberjacks. Their regular contributions for religious
purposes amounted to almost |8o annually, being paid out of an average
annual income of about $i,ooo. Everyone knows that even a small frac-
tion of this financial burden in Germany would lead to a mass exodus
from the church. But quite apart from that, nobody who visited the
United States fifteen or twenty years ago, that is, before the recent
Europeanization of the country began, could overlook the very intense
church-mindedness which then prevailed in all regions not yet flooded
'Die Protestantischen Sekten und der Geist des Kapitalismus,' Gesammelte Aufsaetze zur
Religionssoziologie, vol. i, pp. 207-36.
* The principle is often only dieoretical; note the importance of the Catholic vote, as
well as subsidies to confessional schools.
302
THE PROTESTANT SECTS AND THE SPIRIT OF CAPITALISM 303
by European immigrants.* Every old travel book reveals that formerly
church-mindedness in America went unquestioned, as compared with
recent decades, and was even far stronger. Here we are especially inter-
ested in one aspect of this situation.
Hardly a generation ago when businessmen were establishing them-
selves and making new social contacts, they encountered the question:
'To what church do you belong?' This was asked unobtrusively and in
a manner that seemed to be apropos, but evidently it was never asked
accidentally. Even in Brooklyn, New York's twin city, this older tradi-
tion was retained to a strong degree, and the more so in communities
less exposed to the influence of immigration. This question reminds one
of the typical Scotch table d'hote, where a quarter of a century ago the
continental European on Sundays almost always had to face the situation
of a lady's asking, 'What service did you attend today?' Or, if the Con-
tinental, as the oldest guest, should happen to be seated at the head of
the table, the waiter when serving the soup would ask him: 'Sir, the
prayer, please.' In Portree (Skye) on one beautiful Sunday I faced this
typical question and did not know any better way out than to remark:
'I am a member of the Badische Landes\irche and could not find a
chapel of my church in Portree.' The ladies were pleased and satisfied
with the answer. 'Oh, he doesn't attend any service except that of his
own denomination!'
If one looked more closely at the matter in the United States, one
could easily see that the question of religious affiliation was almost
always posed in social life and in business life which depended on per-
manent and credit relations. However, as mentioned above, the Ameri-
can authorities never posed the question. Why?
First, a few personal observations [from 1904] may serve as illustra-
tions. On a long railroad journey through what was then Indian terri-
tory, the author, sitting next to a traveling salesman of 'undertaker's
hardware' (iron letters for tombstones), casually mentioned the still
impressively strong church-mindedness. Thereupon the salesman re-
marked, 'Sir, for my part everybody may believe or not believe as he
pleases; but if I saw a farmer or a businessman not belonging to any
church at all, I wouldn't trust him with fifty cents. Why pay me, if he
doesn't believe in anything?' Now that was a somewhat vague motiva-
tion.
* The opening by prayer of not only every session of the U. S. Supreme Court but
also of every Party Convention has been an annoying ceremonial for quite some time.
304 RELIGION
The matter became somewhat clearer from the story of a German-born
nose-and-throat specialist, who had established himself in a large city on
the Ohio River and who told me of the visit of his first patient. Upon
the doctor's request, he lay down upon the couch to be examined with
the [aid of a] nose reflector. The patient sat up once and remarked with
dignity and emphasis, 'Sir, I am a member of the Baptist Church in
Street.' Puzzled about what meaning this circumstance might have
for the disease of the nose and its treatment, the doctor discreetly in-
quired about the matter from an American colleague. The colleague
smihngly informed him that the patient's statement of his church mem-
bership was merely to say: 'Don't worry about the fees.' But why should
it mean precisely that? Perhaps this will become still clearer from a
third happening.
On a beautiful clear Sunday afternoon early in October I attended a
baptism ceremony of a Baptist congregation. I was in the company of
some relatives who were farmers in the backwoods some miles out of
M. [a county seat] in North Carohna. The baptism was to take place in
a pool fed by a brook which descended from the Blue Ridge Mountains,
visible in the distance. It was cold and it had been freezing during the
night. Masses of farmers' families were standing all around the slopes
of the hills; they had come, some from great distances, some from the
neighborhood, in their light two-wheeled buggies.
The preacher in a black suit stood waist deep in the pond. After prep-
arations of various sorts, about ten persons of both sexes in their Sunday-
best stepped into the pond, one after another. They avowed their faith
and then were immersed completely — the women in the preacher's arms.
They came up, shaking and shivering in their wet clothes, stepped out
of the pond, and everybody 'congratulated' them. They were quickly
wrapped in thick blankets and then they drove home. One of my rela-
tives commented that 'faith' provides unfailing protection against sneezes.
Another relative stood beside me and, being unchurchly in accordance
with German traditions, he looked on, spitting disdainfully over his
shoulder. He spoke to one of those baptised, 'Hello, Bill, wasn't the
water pretty cool?' and received the very earnest reply, ^]t^, I thought
of some pretty hot place (Hell!), and so I didn't mind the cool water.'
During the immersion of one of the young men, my relative was star-
tled.
'Look at him,' he said. 'I told you so!'
When I asked him after the ceremony, 'Why did you anticipate the
THE PROTESTANT SECTS AND THE SPIRIT OF CAPITALISM 305
baptism of that man?' he answered, 'Because he wants to open a bank
inM.'
'Are there so many Baptists around that he can make a Hving?'
'Not at all, but once be